Contagion : RE2 (Re-Released)
by DirtyMonk
Summary: The most underrated RE fanfic on the web. Disturbing and violent, it is a grittier version of the RE2 you're used to. Read if you dare.
1. Introduction

Introduction 

Introduction 

(skip if you want)

Well, what can I say, it's been nearly two years since I've written Contagion (_Created Saturday, March 07, 1998 1:54:00 AM_) and I've got to say it's represented a part of me during those two years, from start to the uncompleted end (damn, I just keep on telling myself…_how did it happen, that I couldn't finish something I felt so ambitious about_). Anyway, for those of you who don't know what this is based on, the story is actually a fanfic (fiction created using copyrighted characters/stories from movies, games, etc.) based on Capcom's psx game, _Resident Evil 2_ (If you don't know what Resident Evil 2 is, I'll just tell you it's basically a game with lots of blood, horrific atmospheres, zombies, monsters, and several other things you'd find in horror films—biological haywire sort of thing). What I did with this story was I took everything from the game and pretty much changed it, adding many more things along the way. I even changed the characters. The characters from the game differ _a lot_ from the game's, so don't be surprised if Leon is crazy and Claire is chased by a bunch of hit men, because that's about how far the differences get. Think of it as if it were made into a movie—you know how movies change the original, well, same principle applies here. Well, I know how tired you must feel to read this before a really long story that isn't even finished…I know how depressing that feels. So I'm just going to end this with a simple note that most of you who have played the game will remember, and it's…

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Welcome to the world of survival horror. 

--N. L. (1/3/01)


	2. Prologue : Counting Sins

Prologue: Counting Sins

Prologue : Counting Sins

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4:00 P.M., Eastern Section, Raccoon City—The Somers Residence 

The sight of the rust stains discoloring the Somers house was enough to make Tony Charleno's skin prickle. Umbrella sure had its way for hiring an interesting blend of careless (and psychotic) scientists. The stains flaming downward from the storm drain stretched itself vertically, creating and almost eerie fire decoration across the house exteriors. Details like these simply made Tony more grateful of his job as a plumber.

"Yo, Tony!" Enrique shouted. The volume of his voice nearly made him jump.

His head turned, pivoting around his neck to focus on his plumbing partner. The young bastard was wearing nothing but baggy jeans and a wife-beater. A goddamn wife-beater. The same white shirts you always saw on those beer-bellied slobs from those _Cops _episodes was _on_ his partner. And he was about to enter a house with _that_ on. 

"What is it," Tony said solemnly. He had enough of Enrique's way of dress. Sure, _at home_ the man could cross-dress with his girlfriend's lingerie, wear nothing but his fucking underwear—even roam the house naked for all he cared—Tony didn't mind any of that. 

But to work alongside him wearing a shirt that exposed nothing but his scrawny arms and smelly pits—not to mention being able to scare away nearly half their customers—is what _really _fed him up. Proper attire was a requirement to Tony's plumbing business. He didn't care if he looked dirty wearing overalls and Ben Davises. They were plumbers, not street thugs. And with a fellow partner in the business not dressing to meet his standards, this pissed him off. Tony Charleno was gonna teach Enrique Chavez a big lesson. A _very_ big lesson.

"Should I bring the propane torch or the auger?" Enrique asked, unaware of Tony's abrupt movement toward their van. A blank surprise brushed through his face. Enrique could sense something was wrong. "Or maybe I'll just bring both?" 

Tony didn't answer Enrique's question. He saw his boss heave himself into the back of the van. His large face was red with anger. To Enrique, it seemed as though he might of pushed Tony a bit too far. He must of done something to switch off that light fuse of his. Done _what,_ though? He simply asked him about which tools to bring. Was he pissed off at him because of _that?_

From the car window, he saw his boss's eyes glaring at him with rage. The same kind of rage seen in a serial killer. Tony backed away from their van, he took slow steps. 

"Chavez…come here for a second, I want to teach you a _very_ big lesson."

He heard rustling coming from the van. Something metallic; something heavy. 

"Tony," Enrique said. His voice was beginning to quaver, sounding like a spindly pubescent clerk being held up at gunpoint. "I don't know _what_ I did to piss you off, but whatever I did…" he swallowed hard, causing his throat to squeeze itself tight, "…I'm really sorry. I mean, I'm _sorry_, I really am sorry for what I did, Tony."

"Sorry, eh?" Tony's eyebrows began to narrow until they changed the outlook of his eyes. Now they looked _definitely _psychotic. "Italians like me don't like accepting apologies, Enrique. So either you take off that A-shirt you're wearing and quit this job, or I'm going to have to remove you the _hard _way because you're _dead,_ boy, and your Hispanic head is _mine!_"

Enrique dropped his tools. They bounced on the pavement and rolled around beside his feet. He was quite positive that he could take on Tony any day—he had boxing running straight through his blood, but there was something else about the anger in his boss that terrorized him. It was true…it was actually beginning to happen. 

__

Tony Charleno was going to kill him. He was actually about_ to kill him._

The steps Enrique made back were slow and began to increasingly numb him with every step. _No, _he thought, _no, it can't be…please God, Jesus, what the Hell does he have in there. Please help me Lord, dammit…he's coming out of the van. Oh shit. Fuck me, he has a wrench and he's going to kill me! Holy shiiit my God, HE'S RUNNING STRAIGHT AT MEEEEEEE!_

Enrique threw his arms up as he saw Tony rush out the van with _that_ huge monkey wrench. The three-foot beast was raised high over his shoulders, aiming downwards onto Enrique's forehead. He then felt Tony's immense weight press down over him. The big guy leapt on him.

His body was thrown into the lawn of the Somers residence, he felt Tony's impounding mass crushing his stomach while he struck down at Enrique's forehead, delivering massive damage. He was sure to be dead now. 

The wrench made contact with the top of his head, and Enrique felt everything. He felt the jagged teeth of the steel tool boring through his skull and encapsulating itself with the warm mass of his brain. His blood collided with Tony's grinning face. He saw this happen over and over again with Tony's continuing swipes. The wrench slammed into his head six…seven…eight…nine times without hesitation until Enrique felt his head growing numb with the pain. 

Numb…with the pain…after nine times? Wait a minute. 

Enrique opened his eyes and saw his supervisor as he continued to swing the wrench at his skull. He was laughing. The monkey wrench slapped him across the face again. He didn't feel the same pain he expected. All he saw as his boss winded up for the next swing was that the rubber wrench was wobbling. It was not only wobbling—it was jiggling before his very eyes. Enrique threw his hands onto his forehead and felt nothing but sweat. Sweat that felt like blood. 

Tony howled with laughter; his hand came down and slapped Enrique on the chest. _"Jesus,_ Enrique!" he chuckled while picking up his words again, "you're so _fucking_ gullible! What were you thinking—I worked with you for _two_ years, my boy, you actually thought I was gonna kill you?" His spasm of laughter continued, throwing bits of his saliva onto Enrique. 

He was surprised to be alive; saved by a joke played on him by his boss. _So I guess Tony ain't that killer type after all,_ Enrique thought. He shook his head. "Don't you try that again, I mean it. Geez, man, you know…you almost had me _wetting my pants_, for Goodness sakes! Now, how do you think my baby's gonna respond to me going home one day all soaked in my underwear?"

"She's gonna laugh her butt off, Chavez, because you're too uptight," Tony grinned. "And that wife-beater! For Christ's sake, Tony, you actually think I'm gonna let you wear that outfit in this nice neighborhood?" 

Enrique sat up, wiping the blades of grass off his shoulders. They were yellow and frail, occasionally clinging onto his clothing. "Look," he bent down into his boss's eyes, "I was planning to change a minute ago before you had to go fucking Anthony Perkins on my ass!"

Tony chuckled, his deep voice still sounded authoritative. "Enrique, after ten more miserable years with you, I'll still have to remind you to never wear your funky shirts around me. Face it, you have the memory of a chicken. And I'm used to it."

"What, are _you_ implying something about my heritage being—"

"And after _two_ years, Chavez… _two years_, you still forget about never talking back to me. You're a lucky boy, Enrique, and you know I would've fired you long ago if you hadn't kept that mouth shut during your first days."

That was enough to silent Enrique. He brought his face down in apparent shame.

"So what's in store today," he asked.

Tony Charleno stood up. His sagacious image was tall and noble. "Get dressed, we're going to work with a special client today. You like Umbrella cola?"

Enrique nodded. "Sure, best nature-stuff I've tasted since _Snapple._ Why?"

"We could be getting a few free samples if we hadn't scared him off already."

"Great, I could definitely use a drink for this moment."

Tony walked over to the tools Enrique had last dropped moments ago. He bent down and picked up the closet auger. "Why did you decide on bringing the fucking auger?" he asked while the coil hanging from its tip swung freely, "we're working with a toilet for crying out loud."

The brown eyes on Enrique blinked twice. On normal circumstances you _needed_ an auger to unclog a toilet. "But…don't you need that to drain out the toilet?"

"Not if we're planning on tearing it apart," Tony said, "the man says it might be pretty serious." He then picked up the propane torch. "Guy said we'll be needing more of this." Tony held up the torch for his naïve partner to see. 

The eyes of his naïve partner widened. "You're telling me that we _will_ be tearing out a toilet, right?" Enrique made sure he was actually positive of this.

Tony nodded, and with perplexing eyes, he added, "And get _this_: the man wants us to bring a jack-hammer…he says something really _large_ could be down there." 

"He wants us to bring in the Bosch so we can drain a toilet?"

Tony's face was unchanging. He nodded again. 

"So," Tony asked their blonde customer, "how long have you been working for Umbrella?" 

The Somers guy looked at him with sharp eyes. Sharp blue eyes. "Oh, around three…no wait, five years. That's right, five years." 

Tony nodded, smirking a light frown. For a scientist working for one of the largest Corporations the world had to offer, he sure seemed unsure about what he was saying. 

"That can amount to a good sum of experience," Tony said, chuckling lightly. He faced Enrique and slapped him across his shoulders while maintaining his laughter. Enrique was wearing a grey Dickies outfit—he now looked like the hard-core Mexican he always wanted to be. He faced his client while smiling. "So, Mr. Somers…" 

"Kyle…_Kyle_ Somers," he interrupted, "just call me by my name." He nodded, smiling frankly. "And yes, five years canamount to lots of good experience."

"Well _hey!_" Tony widened his eyes as he spread his arms. "Experience is what it's all about!" He smiled. Really, all Tony could conclude was that this Kyle Somers was one strange man to begin and end the road with. Extremists like these were not everyday types for a Raccoon City plumber to brush business with—but hey, the guy works for Umbrella, the folks down there must overwork the poor soul for all Tony knew. "So," Tony continued, "they must overwork you fellas down there, but we common citizens here at Raccoon favor the new drink you've provided us! Hell, to give free samples of your fragrance products before they're released…now _that's_ meeting consumer demands!"

Tony must of mentioned something sensitive to Kyle. His face suddenly flushed red, as if he were blushing…or trying to cover up something. "Yes, yes…thank you, thank you very much," he said, "I'm glad you actually enjoy our products—and no, they don't really overwork us. They're quite flexible when it comes down to schedules." He then chuckled, nodding again.

"That's good…real swell." Tony placed his palms together so that it looked like he was in some prayer. "So, let's get to business here, Kyle. What exactly is the problem with your toilet?"

"Well, as I said before, it's simply clogged."

"And you've requested us to bring a jack-hammer and, which was recommended, a propane torch," Tony replied. He was actually making sure if this man actually meant what he said about bringing those extras.

"Yes, exactly," he nodded again. "I have this very faint feeling something large must have been lodged within the pipes down there. I just want you to make sure if it _is_ something _large_ down there, and nothing else." 

Tony may not have noticed this earlier, but Kyle's voice seemed disturbed somewhat. It looked as if he was housing some intense emotions concerning what they were about to do with his toilet. This made Tony decide in raising this question for Somers: "Before this…clogging …has anything out of the ordinary happened to the toilet that must of caused it to clog? Meaning you drop anything? Or did anything particularly _large _become stuck down there?"

He looked up, apparently locked into his own thoughts, then looked at Tony again. "I don't remember anything being dropped in our toilet. Since my wife and I don't have anybody else living in this house, there was no way anybody or any _thing_ would have dropped some object down there to cause it to clog up that way."

Tony nodded. "Hm, looks as if we might just be dealing with dirt and debris buildup. You sure _nothing_ happened to the toilet that you could of missed?"

"Well, my wife _did _have a miscarriage and we flushed it away. That was a month ago, I think, but anything else…I don't think so."

Tony chuckled. "Baby must of grown down there," he said, continuing to chuckle.

Kyle smiled blankly in return. 

"Hey," Enrique said, interrupting their developing silence, "cute kid."

Tony looked to where Enrique was standing. On the shelf, there was a framed picture of a blonde, blue-eyed girl of about 12 years. Smiling beside her was Kyle and what looked like his wife. Must have been one happy family. 

"Ah, Sherry," Kyle said. "Yeah, she's a good kid. We were always trying to have a child…my wife and I. Been trying for nearly a year now."

"Oh, that's _not_ you in the picture?" Enrique asked in amazement.

Kyle shook his head, laughing. "No, no…" he laughed again. "That's William Birkin—my cousin, lucky man. He's one of the head scientists at the Raccoon Branch of Umbrella. He has it all…I have nothing." He smiled.

"Oh!" Tony let his sentimental side take him. "Need not to feel you have nothing, Kyle! You got _us_, at least…the best plumbers in Raccoon I shit you not!" He turned to slap Enrique on the shoulder. "Is that right, my man?"

Enrique nodded, sighing to himself. His eyes rolled upward as he shook his head.

Tony smiled to cheer up his customer. Nothing like good 'ol heartiness. "I think your cousin Birkin should be jealous. You have us on your side, Somers, don't worry."

"May we get to fixing the toilet, gentlemen?" Kyle said, ignoring Tony's display of affection. Tony swore to himself he heard Enrique snickering behind his back. 

"Sure, okay Kyle, let's do it," Tony said; his smile faded. 

"I'll just be getting some business done upstairs while the both of you get that job done," Kyle said. 

"Okie-dokie," Tony replied. He turned to Enrique and nodded. "Let's go."

"Ready…_now!_" 

The toilet seat lurched forward, swaying a bit before steadying over the opened drain. Brownish liquid gushed from where the toilet and floor split apart. It crawled outward, spreading across the white tiling while leaving nothing but paths of darkened clumps. One of the chunks settled near Tony's boot. 

"Ah, damn!" he cried while bringing his arm to his nose. "Seven years being a plumber, Enrique, and I haven't smelled shit _this_ bad in my life."

"We should get this job done before that smell kills us," Enrique said, wincing. 

They set the toilet lying in the bathtub. A small stream of clotted fluid slithered its way down the tub's drain. Both plumbers stood above the hole where the seat had been while gazing down the murky depths of its drain. Tony looked at Enrique. 

"Oh, hell no…am I sticking my arm down there," Enrique said.

"Paper-Rock-Scissors," Tony said. Enrique nodded. 

Both of them held out their bouncing fists. Tony brought out a rock.

Enrique's hand shot out a paper. He won. 

"You lucky bastard," Tony said as he grinned. He then took a look at the drain. 

The circular opening, around a foot in diameter, silently greeted Tony's proposed stare. The dark liquid made it impossible for him to see what was clogging the pipes down there. Small masses of shit floated silently on the surface. The silt-like haze clouding up the liquid slowly drifted around the water's area in small clouts. Tony readied his arms to plunge them into that mysterious area. 

"Are you insane, man?" Enrique interrupted. "I thought you were just playing around! Let's just cut the crap and get the hammer set in!"

"You're too uptight, Enrique." Tony smiled. He liked doing stupid things. Whether it had the ability to kill or fatally injure him for life, Tony liked that. Plunging a bare arm into the smelly drain of a clogged toilet didn't seem to him as bad as sticking his arm in a sink drain equipped with a garbage disposer. So what was the risk? His arm would smell like shit? Ha! Tony liked living on the edge. Even though his life was anywhere _but_ "the edge," he liked spicing things up.

He sat himself on the wet floor and brought his arm down the drain. 

At first, the cool sensation of water engulfing his arm rushed to his senses. He brought his hand around, spreading it, feeling the rough surface of the pipe while grab-bing whatever object came floating within his grasp.

Something caught his arm—nah, it was just a soggy clot of toilet paper. 

"Becky's pregnant again," Enrique said.

Tony jumped a little, shaken in surprise. His arm shot back and splashed some water all over the floor. "_What?_ My Becky's pregnant?" He turned his face to meet Enrique's. His eyes were widened in dumbfounded astonishment. 

"Told me it read blue the other day," Enrique said. "Look, don't kill the messenger—I was just doing my job. You're grateful I'm telling you this."

Tony's nostrils flared. It was the second time his daughter had a baby. His arm went deeper, now clawing away at everything that came within its path. "It was Brian, wasn't it? That bastard, Brian Leeman, I specifically told her _not_ to see that—"

"Hey, the man's not as bad as you think he his…he's offering to take care of the baby for crying out loud! I mean come on! The guy at least makes up for the fun he's had—types like him are a lot harder to find than you think."

Tony grunted, gritting his teeth together. Whatever his stiffening arm could find down there, he'll rip to shreds. Oh yeah. He looked up at Enrique again. "What about the last guy…Ben, that's right, Ben Hogan—wasn't that his name? You know, the nerd turned football player?"

Enrique brought his hand back to scratch his head. "Died, he died in a car crash. I think a drunk driver went head on with him—he wasn't wearing a seatbelt, poor guy."

Tony chuckled, smiling. "That's right," he grinned, "deserved it for first making my daughter pregnant in the first place." He chuckled again. He wanted the same to happen to Brian—yep, bastard number two…that'll scare the rest of the next guys from fucking her again. He smiled. 

"Whatever you say, Tony," Enrique said, "All of them weren't exactly the scum of the planet, but you had to terrorize them anyway—jeez do you think trying to wire bombs on their cars will make them stick around any longer? I mean give me a break." 

"You shut up." Tony raised a finger at Enrique, he was still trying to find the source of the clogging with his other hand. He might as well give up and hammer the whole bathroom inside out, if it makes him feel any better. "Besides," he continued, "I'm gonna need some money so I can hire a hit man to shoot these pathetic low-lives."

Enrique smiled. "Who you gonna hire? The Mafia? The Government? One of Bartowen's hit men?" He snickered in amusement.

"Whatever comes to my attention," Tony said bitterly. His hand probed deeper. 

"You think Bartowen, one of the most powerful crime bosses in the world will ever want to work for you?" 

"I never said I was going to hire that scary fuck, Chavez, and why in the hell are you bringing up that bastard's name in front of me? You could probably get us killed talking about him like that."

Enrique shook his head. He then crossed his arms. "You're too uptight, Tony."

"Too uptight, huh?" Tony's eyes widened. Now he really felt like killing this prick who had been his partner for over two years. Two goddamn years. "Who the fuck was the one screaming, 'you almost had my pants wet for goodness sakes' after I ran out with a fucking rubber wrench. You're almost lucky I hadn't had a real one to unload on your wetback ass!"

Now Enrique's eye's widened. "Wetback? Who the hell you calling 'wetback' you jack-ass, motherfucker!" He then brought his arms up in a boxing guard. He was sure all the way that he could take down this Italian in _any_ fight when given the chance. "So you want to put on a war, Tony—is that right?"

It was as if Enrique's words caused it to happen. 

Tony, just about to retaliate and give Enrique another year-long lecture, stiffened as his eyes grew wide—with terror. The arm that he had probing down the drain jerked as if something caught it…or grabbed it. It then pulled him, causing his whole arm to be sucked down the malicious aperture. Tony grabbed the remnants of his voice and screamed. 

"MY—FUCKING SHIT! AH, SHIT!" Tony cried. The pain was unbearable as he lied flattened on the floor with his arm being pulled down the toilet drain—and being chewed off by something. _Something..._

Well, my wife did_ have a miscarriage and we flushed it away..._

Tony screamed again, his voice stretched out as his scream carried along with the continuation of time. At first, he felt a sharp _prick_ as if a whole plethora of knives dug into the flesh of his arm. Then came the jerk and the pull. When it suddenly pulled him, he felt something in his arm go _snap _and was suddenly being yanked down the toilet drain by a force that seemed to equal the tugging of a large shark. But the pain he was now suffering this very moment made all that he had experienced feel like sweet massage therapy. 

Sharp pain…cutting at his arm, tearing it away chunk by chunk ran through his senses. God, it felt like barb wire was scraping him across the wrists, picking up some of his veins along with it severing a tendon and twisting a ligament. It did all that and _grinded_ together at the same time. Tony yelled out something indistinguishable to the English language. He couldn't stand it any longer. So he yanked at it. Yes, he pulled back, hoping to somehow loosen its grip on him so he could actually be free. 

And he felt Enrique's arms wrap around him—he was helping! The bastard had heart! In between the hate, the prick was willing to help!

Enrique pulled, heaving with all his strength to release his boss from the clutches of whatever had him. His teeth were pressed together, showing a fine set of them in the unintended grin. He groaned as he tugged harder while hearing Tony scream louder.

"Almost…have you…Tony," Enrique winced under the pressure, "just a few more tugs and you're gonna be free…" his strained voice said.

They then both flew back into the wall beside them, slamming into it in one cold thud. The force caused the water to splash back over them, enabling some of the brown clumps to smash into their face and clothing. Both plumbers lied there silently. Tony, with a pale face was staring at his right arm. Enrique, dazed from his impact with the wall, stood panting with his arms embracing Tony from behind. 

__

"OH MY GOD!" Tony shrieked. His right arm was literally gone. It was severed to the point where from his hand, and up the joint of his elbow, was torn off. Blood—mixed with the putrid sewage—rapidly dribbled off from the protruding bone of his arm. It rained down all over the white floor, smudging it red. From the developing crimson puddle beside Tony's foot—and with the help of the fluorescent lights—the outline of the cartilage emerging from Tony's detached elbow joint appeared in the liquid frame. 

Both plumbers focused their eyes on what then came out of the drain hole. 

From his first sight of it, Enrique thought a whole pile of shit was coming to life before his very eyes, but he knew better. The thing that came shooting up from the drain was brown—like the shit Enrique thought he had seen. One moment to Enrique's eyes, it was wide as the diameter of the drain hole—the next, it unfolded itself to the width of a terrifying five feet. And when its head came up to smile at Enrique—placing it around four feet tall, his face grew pale, and from the trembling in his lips, he felt like screaming the same way Tony did when his arm was shredded by it. 

Tony took in shallow gasps while slowly squirming back with Enrique by his side. It looked like a spider—four legs with a bulging, large body attached to them—but at the same time, it was the most ugliest thing he had ever seen. Its tale, like a scorpion's, stood high over its head. Its eyes were white slits. Its teeth looked like a pair of combs stuck together to form a devilish grin. And with all its features intact before Tony's eyes, it leapt on him. 

__

"Enriiique!" Tony hollered helplessly. If this lost soul could save his life from the thing today, then this Mexican hombre would be receiving one hell of a fine promotion _en la manana_. But from the looks of it, Tony's gonna have to save his own ass for now. 

For a moment the pain left him, and Tony was suddenly the enraged Italian his reputation bore. His left hand jabbed at the beast in midair and grabbed it by the neck. Yes, he grabbed the fucker by the neck! 

"Enrique, dammit!" Tony yelled while turning his head to face him. The ugly monster was beginning to push him towards the wall behind his large body. "_Do_ something, grab anything!"

Enrique just sat back and gawked at what was happening. His hands were shaking as the set of his eyes rushed to find something useful. _Do something, grab anything,_ the voice of Tony continued to ring in his head. 

Tony stared into the eyes of the thing. The pupil-less slits looked back down into his own eyes. He sneered. It drew its mouth open and shrieked into his face. In its open mouth, a line of spittle stretched thin between its upper and lower jaws shuddered during its ear-splitting screech. A pack of lines then came sprouting forth from the sides of its body—shaking lines swinging and winding around like tentacles. The thick legs, each pronged at the tip with an assortment of blades, brought itself around and swiped at Tony's thick gut. The blades of its foot came down, disappeared into Tony's abdomen, and reappeared blood-drenched in the same swinging manner a pendulum went—back and forth and to-and-fro until nothing but ribbons were left. 

The pain was faint to Tony's aggression, as his adrenaline anesthetized its sweeping feeling. He took the matter into his own hands. The vise-grip he had on its neck strengthened itself exponentially. Tony then leaned aside and brought the monster high over him, so he can swing it down and smash its head into the edge of the toilet. And he did slam it into the hard surface. It brought out blunt _thuds_ with every crushing impact. 

Tony smiled. He was able to lift the monster and bang it against the rim of the tub at least five times. At each, he saw its face begin to cave in until it became nothing but a soggy surface of blood and bruised flesh. But he also saw what it already did to his arm. 

He screamed, bringing his damage on the thing to a slow tap. The little fuck had slashed away nearly all the flesh on his left arm. The whiteness of his radius and ulna—still miraculously attached to his arm—stood out from the stringy sinew. Blood was everywhere, speckled over the walls, and painted over every white surface within a three-foot radius. Tony screamed again. And the thing fell on him and began its turn with the infliction of damage. 

The shocked eyes of Tony scanned the bathroom. Enrique was still rummaging through their bag of tools. There was nothing in the bag that could lay any sort of lasting impression on it. Nothing that could remind it of Tony and Enrique's wrath. 

__

"The jack-hammer!" Tony screamed as the thing sat on top of him and slashed his face apart. _"Enrique! The Hand Jack-hammer, grab the fucking Bosch!"_

Enrique looked at his boss. That was it! The propane torch and the handheld jack-hammer! It was lain out on the front porch! If he could spare a few seconds to run out and get the tools, then that thing would be finished! Fucked straight off the planet! He then burst out the bathroom and raced to get the much-needed tools. 

When Enrique ran from the room, the image of his boss being shredded by the thing stuck in his eyes. It stuck in his eyes the same way bright lights became multi-colored blurs whenever he clenched his eyelids shut. From that image, he was able to make out the nightmarish scene depicting the monster about to plunge something down Tony's mouth. He didn't know what it was, but to him it looked like the trunk of an elephant. 

Enrique crouched low behind the entrance to the bathroom. The propane torch he had in his arms was lit, giving out that _buuuuurr_ sound as the bluish flame continued to jut out the spout. The jack-hammer, plugged with an extension cord from the living room, was in his other hand. 

And all he could heard was silence…except for a slow, _squishing_ sound. Enrique waited. 

__

Squishing…more squishing…silence…then squishing again… 

He peered around and looked into the bathroom. 

What Enrique was seeing was almost exactly what was left in his mind when he left to get the tools. The brown thing was sitting over Tony, sitting still as a tube was forced down his mouth. Except Tony was dead. His eyes were pupil-less, leaving nothing but whiteness in his dead eyes. But the tube down his throat was alive and it contracted one moment and thinned itself the next. After every few seconds, the spot on Tony's stomach rose and fell as if he were breathing. 

Enrique tightened his lips together. Tony was dead…he was really dead. His boss whom he shared conversations with, laughed with each Friday night, consulted with whenever he had problems, and worked side to side with for over two years…was dead! Dead by some animal born from the toilet. And whatever that thing was doing to him, Enrique wanted it to suffer for what it did to his boss, and his friend. Suddenly, all Enrique could feel at that moment was anger—vengeance, blind fury. The hands gripping the tools began to shake with rage. He pulled his lips back, showing his teeth. 

"I'M GONNA KILL YOU, YOU FUCKING BASTARD!" Enrique squeezed the trigger of the Bosch, mini jack-hammer in his hands. He felt the inner motor sputter to life while its sharp tip began to repeatedly jab into the air with increasing speed until it blurred. The 100-decibal noise it made ripped across the walls. He ran into the bathroom and brought his foot over the thing and flattened it to the ground while the rapidly loud _br-br-br-br!_ stood above its shrieking face. 

Enrique rammed the active hammer down its abdomen.   
A fountain of the thing's blood came squirting up. The liquid licked and stained Enrique's pants while the monster rocked violently with the motion of the jack-hammer. Its head repeatedly slammed into the tiled floor while its long legs swung up and down in staccato movements. The tip of the hammer's furious stabbing blurred within the flood of bursting red. It screamed, shrieking into Enrique's ears like the sound of an metallic object scratching the chalkboard. 

Enrique smiled, watching it struggle to wriggling back amidst the jack-hammer's death prods. "Where do you think you're going?" Enrique asked in sarcastic sorrow. He chuckled. "Now _who's_ the man?!"

The jack-hammer stopped, and Enrique began to ease with his laughter. 

He looked at the crushing end of the hammer as it slowly waned from a deadly weapon to a benign garage appliance. The reddened, silver tip began to weaken in its action, ceasing to blur as it once did. The in and out motion grew slow before rolling to a stop. Enrique looked behind him. His jaw dropped. 

The extension cord wasn't long enough. 

"No! Shit, _shit!_ This can't be happening!" Enrique cried. The hiss below him became the answer to his statement. He looked down. The thing was still alive, barely damaged from the previous strikes. Enrique's hand clenching the propane torch sprang to life. 

If only Enrique's draw was faster than the monster's clawing swipe…then he'd still be living, as a happy plumber in Raccoon he would be. He'd own Tony's business—the money would all go his direction, and he'd probably be off on a vacation to Tahiti in the next few days. Hell, Malibu seems nicer. In fact, anywhere on Earth would seem a lot nicer than what Enrique's life turned out to be this very moment. 

It freed itself from his foot and the claws rapidly slashed at his legs. The momentum of its swinging brought itself off the ground, clawing up Enrique with its slashing. So in other words, as it was slashing him to shreds, it was practically walking up his body to reach its face. And it did reach his face. 

Enrique Chavez screamed—his last out of a number of many. 

**__**

Genetic specimen A34-8.5, Version A. Code name: "Licker"

Primary Role: **To infiltrate strongholds while choosing to dispatch as many enemies as possible.** The augmented tongue of specimen A34-8.5 was created to ensure quick, fatal strikes to our enemies in points that would prove severe to the human body. Such places included the neck, where its tongue could easily lash at, causing a wide laceration across the carotid artery. The victim would easily perish in seconds from blood loss. This defensive mechanism proved to be highly useful until later updates.

In the more recent developments, the large, curved hooks, or "claws," modified to the creature's skeletal structure added immediate complexity to our established view of the tongue's integrity. With its naturally elongated skeletory limb, the Licker could achieve tremendous status as a feared, heightened killer. With only one downward swipe with its claws, it could quickly eliminate a common soldier, resulting in an immediate decapitation of the head, or of total separation of the body thereof…

The "Licker" didn't frighten Kyle as much as the new "Breeder" did. 

And they were all formed from his cousin's creation: the G-Virus. He went over the notes memorized in his head again, beginning to tremble. With his mind, he ran over the notes pertaining to the newly-developed "Breeder" strains of G-Virus. 

**__**

Genetic specimen B45-B714, Model 29. Code name: "Breeder"

Primary Role:** Impregnation of allotted "victims" to overwhelm enemy forces.** Specimen B45-B714 was designed as a less ethical method for insinuating enemy defenses. The creature, as described from superiors, was referred to as "the virus of the larger world." 

Its function included the impregnation of its embryonic form (either in spores, or its more traditional embryo) into its host. Within a range of a matter of seconds to a number of hours, the creature grows covertly within its host, folded tight to avoid any feeling from the infected host whatsoever. When the Breeder is ready to emerge, it spontaneously erupts from within the victim, causing immediate death to its host. Recent tests from our experiments have shown that in the moment of its birth, the victims have been reported to show no pain or alarm in the moments before the Breeder's emergence.

Our problems concerning Models 1 and 15 were solved with the introduction of the Model 20 series. Our current version, Model 29, have been our perfected form. The creature holds a set of pronged "claws" nearly similar to the Licker's (smaller in whole), and the tendrils-armament added proved to be extra-useful to the Breeder's defenses. The four-legged configuration of the specimen now enables it to scale walls without difficulty. The creature is now optimized for use in prison areas for its ability to compact its insect-like body through tight crevices as small as three inches in width or diameter. With these multiple abilities, the Breeder is a monumental discovery since the upbringing of the Tyrant Strain of G-Virus...

Kyle Somers heard a scream from downstairs. With the first thought in mind, he assumed that the two plumbers downstairs were pulling pranks on each other as they have been earlier outside. Then the sound of the jack-hammer calmed him down. Good, they were working on his bathroom pipes as planned. Fortunately, nothing out of the ordinary happened. He remembered how one of them—Tony Charleno being his name—talked about Umbrella's future plans with the fragrance canisters.

_Hell, to give free samples of your fragrance products before they're released…now that's meeting consumer demands! _

What did the citizens of Raccoon know about consumer demands? They were being experimented on daily. Either it be within the depths of the "newly established" facility below Washington Hospital, or within the covert mansion in the forest destroyed earlier, Raccoon City was the center of Umbrella's experimentation. And now…with haste decisions, they now wanted to test their destruction on the whole city. The same city where one of the more powerful strains were being developed. What that Tony was talking about…the "consumer demands" with the fragrance canisters, was Umbrella's first stage in trying to experiment their new biological weapons. It was known as… 

The First Order of Contagion—_the introduction of harmful organisms within a city-wide population. _

Umbrella was to introduce the T-Virus and G-Virus through two separate occasions. One was the airborne form of the virus. Another involved its liquid state. The fragrance canisters (through a free, door-to-door delivery) were used to test the overall effectiveness of the airborne mutation via a controlled, airborne vs. liquid experiment. The liquid form of the virus was introduced by way of the "Grand Opening" of the Umbrella lab facility beneath Washington Hospital. (The lab had been operating in secret since 1985) In the drinks of hundreds of the Umbrella beverages, the virus rested in the drink would later infect the hosts, causing key carriers of both virus forms. Both organisms are no longer contagious through air or contact with liquids when inside the host. The only method of spreading the virus once the key carriers acquired them, was through the same way AIDS or rabies was transmitted—bites or transfusion of blood among different hosts. Umbrella hopes through its first step in the experiment, they could study the effectiveness of the Virus on the population of Raccoon City using only its key carriers…

And that was scheduled to happen in the next two months.

The scream downstairs startled Kyle. He looked around, apparently confused in a jumble of his own thoughts. It couldn't be. No…it could not.

That scream wasn't human. It sounded high…in between a tea kettle's, along with a little of screeching tires. An average human can never achieve that.

Kyle's face discolored itself until it became lightly pale. 

It was a Breeder's shriek. Nothing else in the world made that sound. 

How could it be? A Breeder in his own house? It couldn't be…_impossible_. 

The shriek continued, slicing through the house and into Kyle's ears. When the scream waned and lessened itself, it sounded like an ally cat's serenade to the night sky. 

Kyle brought his senses together. He looked at the weapons cabinet across the room. A shotgun rested inside. He didn't exactly remember how to fully manage it in his arms, but he knew. All you had to was place the shells in place, pump the front handle with every shot, and squeeze the trigger. Easy.

He opened the cabinet and pulled the long gun out. The weapon was huge…he remembered it being called a Remington, but that was all. Kyle had no time to study the shotgun's characteristics. It was a present given to him from a friend. 

The box of ammunition had only 8 shells. Kyle filled the chambers with seven of them, leaving one in his pocket. The shotgun felt heavier now, its brown color seemed to exact itself into an expression of ferocity as the large stock at the butt-end pressed itself to his chest. A fine specimen, indeed. 

He held his breath and bolted downstairs to the bathroom. 

__

Oh my God, he thought. The two bodies laying in front of him were definitely that of the plumbers. One of them—Tony he made out—had his right arm practically missing. His other arm, his left, was shredded away, revealing the bone underneath. The other plumber, Enrique, had his whole face torn inside out. It looked as if someone had held an exploding grenade before his face. Gnashes of his skin and muscle tissue were strewn everywhere. Kyle saw the spherical, white mass of his eyeball hanging from the socket of his face. It looked like a tetherball the way it hung there. But Kyle then brought his eyes to see what both of them had in common. 

Their stomachs were both rising…and falling rhythmically. Soon, the rising would become more rapid and the Breeders would emerge. Then there would be three roaming Raccoon, each with the ability to spread its seeds and increase in number from each host. An average scientist at Umbrella would marvel at the work of their newfound weapons and allow the Breeders to continue in their work. Kyle didn't.

Kyle Somers tightened his jaw, causing the spot on the sides of his cheeks to rise in a stiff bump. He brought the barrel to Enrique's stomach and pulled the trigger. He did the same to Tony. Both bodies behaved the same way to the shotgun's deafening roar. Their stomachs housing the Breeders burst apart in a wave of flowing blood. It splashed on the white walls, making it more red than it already was. When Tony's stomach exploded, he was momentarily airborne as he was lifted off the ground and landed on a pool of his own blood. Kyle crouched before the dead plumbers. Their eyes were open in white blankness. He brought his palm over to close both their eyes. 

"Rest in peace, Tony…and Enrique," he said. Sorrow overwhelmed him. He never knew he would have to put a shell down their stomachs, killing them, but they were infected by the menace Umbrella created. The menace his cousin created. Kyle grit his teeth and observed the trail of blood leading from the bathroom, across the living room, and into the garage. He grit his teeth again.

He paused, looking at the bathroom. The white walls were smeared, laced, and splattered with blood. The floor was a red sea. The propane torch, still lit, caught his attention. Kyle bent down and picked it up. The bluish flame coming from the nozzle was intense…able to melt anything within its range. Good.

Kyle made his way out the bathroom. The living room was silent. Silent except for the constant _Brrrrrrr_ sound of the torch. He followed the trail of blood. 

Hiss…a faint hiss, came from the garage. A Breeder's hiss. 

Kyle's grip on both his weapons tightened. He felt his palms sweating. The shotgun suddenly began to feel heavy in his arms, nearly becoming a burden instead of a weapon. The hiss continued. 

Kyle inched his way into the garage, his foot making brushes with the ground in careful movements. Breeders were very adept at sensing sudden movements made by people. He turned the torch off. The sound would make it very difficult for him to ambush it. _And thank God,_ he thought,_ that there are windows in my garage to light up the place._ The hiss, sounding like a snake's, sputtered in whispery breaths. 

He saw the Breeder. It was resting on the wall with its head turned…watching him. The thing knew he was coming. My God, it knew. It bent low on the wall, bending its legs upon its joints—and left the wall headed for him. 

Kyle threw his torch aside and aimed with his Remington. He fired twice, never forgetting to pump the front end back with every shot. Both shells missed the Breeder, hitting the ground in a flurry of dust. The spent casings bounced on the floor. 

It landed on the floor five feet away from him, screeching loudly. Kyle noticed how large this one grew to become. It was a lot larger than most of the test specimens. And those were estimated to withstand around three direct shells of a shotgun to kill. This one might take up to five if Kyle didn't miss. And he had only four shells left. 

Its open mouth dripped blood as its tentacles sprang forth to whip at Kyle. He dodged it, running around other sides of the garage to place his next aim toward its body. He pulled the trigger. 

The shotgun leapt in his arms this time. It rammed itself into Kyle's chest as it struggled to hack another shell from its barrel. But it did knock the Breeder back a few feet. The shell's contents slammed into its thick abdomen. Kyle pumped another shell in place with his grip on the front handle. The plastic red-gold covering leapt from the slot in the shotgun's barrel. He fired twice more at the Breeder. One piece of ammunition hit the joint of its leg, ripping it off its body in messes of tossing particles. The other caused a section of its body to burst with an impact of red. It was still alive. 

Kyle dug into his pockets for the last shell, watching the Breeder recover to its feet, literally wounded to the point of being impossibly alive. He loaded the last shell into the chamber and cocked the shotgun. He fastened his foresights on the breeder. It was no longer at the same spot. It was instead in the air inches from his face. 

He threw his hands up, using the weapon as a narrow margin of protection against the fearsome claws. The Breeder threw its surprisingly immense weight on top of him, pressing down over Kyle and hoping to impregnate him the same way it did to Tony and Enrique. When it was on top of Kyle's shoulders, he stood his ground to the weight, and instead of falling back to crash into the floor, he hurled the screaming nightmare towards the gas pipes. Kyle then aligned the sights on his barrel toward the gas valves. One last shot…and it'd better make it. 

He pulled the trigger.

The lead bearings left the barrel, breaking out in multiple directions in the loose flight formation. The bearings cut through the distance between Kyle and the Breeder, slowly inching toward the gas valve with every impending millisecond. The lead balls struck the gas valve, cutting through like knife through cheese and tearing away the metal pipes to spill forth the gaseous contents running through them. The spray was white and was kept under high pressure. The Breeder opened its mouth to a high scream at Kyle. But contrary to many Hollywood movies, the gas did not ignite. It stayed invisible and poisonous in its gaseous state. 

Kyle didn't know what to do. How was he going to ignite it? Light a match in front while it exploded in his face? His eyes scanned the garage. The Breeder perched by the valve hissed. If Kyle did not take advantage of this situation quick enough, then the Breeder would escape. He had to find a way to light that gas up quick.

The propane torch…yes, how could he be so forgetful. But he needed a match to light up the torch.

A Bic lighter was on the table. Kyle hurried himself over towards it.

He snatched the torch and the lighter. The small flame lit from the Bic's miniscule nozzle. He twisted the cap to the torch and the blue flame shot out, so brilliant and bright. In the corner of his eye, the Breeder was preparing to leap itself onto Kyle again. (as it always did) If it succeeded to leave the spot and land on him, then it could have a chance to escape…and continue to breed. 

He brought back his arm holding the lit torch and flung it toward the broken valve in one large wave. 

The Breeder already left the air and was airborne again. 

Kyle dove back and crashed through the window behind him. The large glass fragments gave way to his back. It cut him in certain places, but he was okay. 

The torch, spinning in midair, drew closer toward the hissing valve, briskly missing the Breeder by less than an inch. If it did make contact with the thing, the breeder would still be alive to the days that followed. The silver nozzle (with the flame blowing from its opening) struck the leaking valve, sounding out a metallic _clink!_

The gas pouring from the pipes ignited. The flames brought itself to spread through and bloomed from all areas the gas flowed from. The ignition caused a chain reaction. First, the bursting flames crawled along the direction of the pipes, bursting their thick, steel hide as they caught the gas within. The combustion of chemicals continued until the flames reached the main gas tank somewhere within the walls. 

And half the house exploded. 

The bellowing flames swallowed the Breeder, burying it within the depths of the budding inferno. It shriveled within the engulfing fire and disappeared into fragments of shattered ashes. Then the flames blew the remains away. The searing cloud grew in its influence with the air until it splashed out the same window Kyle came from. The garage became a living container of heat and explosions. 

The rupturing from within the house shook the first floor, shattering the windows. 

The wood boards fastened to the house walls were flung forth into the air, leaving patches of black emptiness on the exterior. Near the walls of the gas pipe—and far away from Kyle's position—the wall bellowed with an eruption of fire. It gave way, spreading its fragments all over the street in clusters of flaming debris. 

Kyle lied on his back while staring at the blue sky above. It was a beautiful day. The smoke inching its way up toward the Raccoon City sky was black and thickening before his eyes. Soon the Fire Dept. would arrive, then the ambulance, and so on. He felt comfortable resting on the dying grass in his lawn. He didn't have time to water them. Usually his wife did that… 

The blissful expression on his face erased itself. In the last two days, he nearly forgot all about his wife. Where has she been? Kyle brought his memory together. To put facts together, he hasn't even seen her for two days. Then it all became clear. 

He sprung himself off the grass and screamed. He screamed at the sky, the beautiful sky. He screamed until his throat could no longer handle the emotion it tried to translate from his brain. He brought his hands to his face, bawling uncontrollably. Tears moistened his palms. When the neighbors soon find him, asking him what was wrong, he'll tell them it was because of his house…when it really was because of something else. Something powerful that will grip this city and tear it apart. 

__

(Umbrella. The Orders of Contagion. The different specimens. The experiment.) 

The fucking fools…they were experimenting on his wife.

__

(Umbrella will pay…)

The Breeder…grown in the drain of his toilet, was his offspring.

__

(…For the creator of the G-Virus…)

He killed it…killed his own son; killed his own daughter. 

__

(…William Birkin…)

Kyle knew his wife was dead—they'd tell him, but he knew the truth. 

__

(…His cousin, a part of his family, was responsible for all of it.) 

(All of it!) 

Kyle brought his head back and screamed again, killing off his voice for the next couple days. He was to make sure something very special will be done for Umbrella. 

Something, in his own mind, that was _very_ personal. 


	3. Part I : Raccoon City (1-9)

Part I 

Part I : Raccoon City

1__

Three months later.

Leon Kennedy blinked awake to the dawn of the morning. The shrill _eeet eeet_ sound of the alarm by his bedside had an effect on him similar to a shot of adrenaline. His head jerked to face the glowing red digits as he slapped the Snooze button, ending the nagging electronic noise. The warm blanket hugging him felt soft and seductive—like a fine brunette, kissing and caressing his lips. His eyes shifted and focused on the R.P.D. uniform hung over on the wall beside his door. 

"First day on the job," he sighed to himself, smiling as he stretched under the cloth squirming against him. "It's about time I show how _real_ law enforcement is done around here." He lifted his covers, revealing the chilling air of the morning. On a usual day he would of dove back into his covers and said, "Shit, it's freezing!" But today, he didn't really give a damn how cold it was. 

Since it was _Leon Kennedy's_ _first day on the job_. 

He walked to the windowsill beside his bed and slid open the window. A gush of cold, dank, pollution-filled Raccoon City air smacked his face—and he was happy to take in as much of it as possible. It stank like Hell, but he had nothing to complain about it.

Since it was _Leon Kennedy's_ _first day on the job_.

He heard his own concrete jungle at work right before his eyes—the city always had its own unique ways of drawing the tourists away. But Leon loved the city sky as much as he enjoyed the rural landscape of the luscious city—they had a sort of helpless-ness he liked, since he was a cop.

And all cops do everyday is help save lives. Leon smiled at the thought.

It was _Leon Kennedy's_ _first day on the job_.

He took in a deep breath of crime and pollution, grinning at what he was soon gonna do to it. He stuck his head out the square opening and heard the sounds of the Raccoon City projects: the police sirens, the occasional gunshots, the domestic violence, the car alarms, and that annoying scream three stories below him? 

What the Hell.

Leon turned his head to face the commotion below. His eyes caught four Negro men beating a helpless bald white man below. They all kicked the victim, spattering tiny white specks all over the street. The white specks were the man's teeth. His assailants all wore the latest in urban wear, which flapped and rolled through the air as if they were hung out to dry on a windy day. Every one of them reacted violently to the man's pleas by shouting racist slurs and adding more kicks to his face every time he made even the slightest movement in hopes of defending himself. 

At first he wanted to run down and save the poor guy, but Leon realized the only best (and ideal) decision now was to run down and kick the guy's ass also. The white man was a Neo-Nazi—a skinhead, or what looked liked one. He was covered with tattoos of White Power slogans and had a skin-shaven head with a large swastika tattooed over it. Punks like those were the kinds Leon wished to have been wiped from the face of the planet long ago. He hated Nazis and KKK racists. He pretty much snarled at the very thought of them. 

Leon pulled his head back and went to his cabinet. He slowly slid the door open and grabbed a wooden stick and his Heckler & Koch VP70. He pulled back the slide to check if the gun was to get jammed. It wasn't. 

Leon headed toward the windowsill once more and drew his head out.

He stared down below. His eyes were full of amusement and personal satisfaction. With the wooden stick in his hand, he leaned over the windowsill and shouted, "Hey all you! Go finish him off with _this_!" He tossed the nightstick, watching it bounce and echo a faint wooden sound. Leon then cupped both hands to his mouth. "Hell Yeah! Take out his arms and legs bring me his fuckin head!" 

Yep, despite the fact he was now a cop, Leon had a _real _wild side. Surely, if that attitude ever popped up one too many times during duty, he'd most likely never get a chance for a _Cops_ segment. But hey, a _Too Hot For TV _version featuring Raccoon City's most rowdiest enforcer would be _100%_ welcome for Leon. 

One of the assailants was a tall, muscular Cuban-looking Negro with dreadlocks. He made a fierce stare at Leon. "You shut yo mouth, white man," he said while shooting a finger. "White Muthafucka, you next in mah killing list!" he shouted at the targeted cheerful face of Leon. 

Now, nowwas that a compliment?

Leon chuckled at the remark, his face smiling down at the intimidating gentleman. "You come up here" he waved his pistol across his smiling face, "and I'll pump you with enough lead to turn you to a fisherman's toy." He snatched a magazine clip and smacked it up the butt of his VP70. He glanced down at the dreadlocked fellow. The Negro stared at Leon's moves silently—with caution. Leon yanked the slide. He drew his handgun out the window and pointed straight up towards the sky. With the jerks of his index finger, he fired five shots—each drawing roaring echoes through the multiple alleys and crevices of the apartment buildings. 

It was an everyday routine: either shoot the sky or never leave home.

"What, you fellow _Afro-Americans_ thought I was really going to shoot you down!?" Leon shouted with a loud cackle. "I may be white, but I sure do have more reason behind pulling a trigger at dark skin!" He laughed, spewing forth frosted mist. 

Now it was time for _Evangelistic Sunrise_—starring Leon Kennedy. He stretched his neck farther up from his window like a wolf howling at a full moon. He began to howl a note of spinning craziness at the dank air as he closed his eyes and spread both arms out like the preachers of _Hour of Power_. _"I Loove You, Raccoon City! You Helped Drag My Ass Out of Welfare and Damn Minimum Wage! By God, I'll Repay You With All My Heart! With Aaall My Heart! From My Heart, Ooh Raccoon My Lovely, I Say"_ Leon snickered, he couldn't handle it anymore. _"I Say"_ he continued. _"GOOOOOOOOD MOORRNING, RACCOOOON CITY!" _he shouted at the top of his lungs.

Not bad for _Leon Kennedy's first day on the job. _Not bad.Amen. 

He nodded at the stunned crowd below, smiling like one _maaad crazy cop_ he was_._ Surely he _was_ one mad crazy cop; his friends had believed it as with the awe-stricken police from academy alongside them. Hell, to put it this way, Leon was more than the mad crazy cop he liked to be—he was also the good-natured officer of the kind, always pausing to put courtesy before anything, baring an immunity towards corruption (was that really so?), and eager enough to do his job the one-hundred percent all-American way (of course without having the urge to feel conceited beyond a personal doubt). And today was the day to prove if his bank of knowledge actually meant their worth. 

He pulled his head in and shut the window, noticing the group below smiling as if he was _tha craaziest white-boy eva laid eyes upon_. One of them had his stick and continued with the skinhead. Poor Nazi boy wailed like a baby with every strike absorbed.

Leon chuckled to himself while resting his head against the window. He shook his head left to right, smiling nervously to himself. "What if he's just an innocent victim?" he said, still chuckling. This was, in fact, a first day; a first action, and a last day to screw around with the world the same patented way his name bore. He raised the window again. 

They had already stopped beating him. The almost too familiar crowd stared at Leon, each sporting their own grin—especially the one with the dreadlocks. 

Leon spread his arms out like a drunken Jesus Christ. "Whaddup, Kobe!" he said to the Cuban-looking Negro with dreadlocks. 

Kobe laughed up at him, his body cocking around from left to right from the laughter. "Sup, Leon-man," he said without the suave Cuban accent he seemed like he would have. "Why you gotta be pullin that hard-cop shit with your lil VP70? You know who got the bigger gun." He flashed an uzi at him, smiling happily before narrowing his eyes. "And that Evangelism shit? _Stupid_!" 

Leon grinned evilly at Kobe. "It's an adrenaline thing, Ko. That's what we do when we don't get enough sex at home. We just go crazy and shoot the skythen go thank the concrete jungles for it all." 

Kobe chuckled, pointing with an extended finger. "You crazy, man. You just fuckin craaazy!" He let out a laugh while his friends smiled alongside him. "Someday them cops trainin you at academy gonna bust dat white-boy ass of yours," he sputtered a snicker, "cause you crazy as _fuck_!" 

"Yeah, but you know today's my last day to get all _fuckin craaazy,'_—I gradu-ated, my brotha. This is my first day on the force, Ko, and I'm now a hard-core cop."

Kobe placed a fist to his lips as if he had an invisible blowgun. "OOh, daamn! Leon's a rookie cop!" He pointed at Leon again, laughing. "Leon's gonna try to be a cop!" He slapped a buddy beside him. "We gonna get his ass tonight!" He laughed again. 

Leon smiled. "But hey," his tone had now gotten more serious. "What's all this beating going on around my complex?"

Kobe already stopped laughing. He shrugged. "We just cleanin Raccoon of all the Nazi KKK FUCKSlike this one." He looked down at the moaning victim. It had already began crawling away a few inches. "Die muthafucka!" he said while kicking the beaten pulp. The Nazi moaned and coughed up intermingled layers of blood and saliva. Kobe wiped his arms as he looked back up at Leon again. "We doin it all for you, man." He smiled at him. "We cleanin' the streets."

"You just kick the living shit out of him," Leon nodded in favor to what his friend said. "But you return my stick after you're done." 

He gave Leon a surprised look. "Have I ever lost your trust?"

"Yeah, you were lucky we have been long-time friends already. Here I am, pulling you out of the law on my first day! I oughta toss that nigger ass on Death Row!" Leon said without a hint of serious intention. That was his way with Kobe, nothing was taken seriously between them. And they both liked that.

Kobe beamed up at him. "Ah, fuck you man" He then shook his head, snickering to himself. "Just go to workor I'll go Rookie-Cop Killah on yo ass!"

"All right then," Leon said. He then made a pointing gesture. "Just don't be a Menace" He smiled his way back through the window. Kobe grinned and shook his head. 

"First day on the job" he muttered to himself while closing the window quietly. "And I'm already a corrupted cop." He shook his head, laughing to himself. "At least it's for a better cause," he added. 

And because it was _Leon Kennedy's first day on the job_.

2

In the moment after his recruitment to the **S.T.A.R.S.** units, Claire Redfield's older brother Chris told her a very important last minute message before his departure. Around this time, Claire had already gotten along well with her brother, and their close relationship as siblings transformed his departure into a rather sentimentally strong event for the both of them. This pretty much pissed her off. Pissed her off real bad. 

Chris was aware that his younger sister would not be seeing him very often, so why not come up with some kind of bullshit to help keep her from missing him _too_ much? 

Because he knew he would never see her again—or so she assumed the fact was true at the moment.

"Claire," his eyes were calmly set onto a younger Claire's eyes. His hand was rested on her shoulder. "There might be a time" He stared at the sky for a minute, thinking (probably about some more B.S. he hoped she could quickly take in). "There might be a time where you, me, or whatever, can get into a situation that I just can't explain, and there might be nothing else that can help"

Claire gave her older brother a cold stare. "Chris," she said in a sisterly tone, "for God's sake, please get to the point."

He sighed onto her face, smiling. "All right, all delivered in a nice compact package for you: Whenever I'm in trouble, Claire, or just need your _plain help_, I'm going to page youokay?"

She looked at him questionably. 

"I'll just page you this number" he took out a pen and scrawled four digits onto a piece of paper before handing it to her. It said: **3845**. 

"So, whenever you're in trouble" she said while staring at the numbers and implanting them into her brain. "I'm supposed to receive this page?" 

"Exactly."

She looked up at him again. "But what if I'm in trouble? What would you do if I was in trouble?" She gave him a happy what-if look. "Anyway, I don't mean to be asking _Jeopardy _questions, Chris, but I think in the next couple years I'll be the more likely person needing your help, instead of you needing mine." 

"Clairekid sister," he said with a smile before strolling around the area facing her, "there's something I'd like you to understand." He stopped in front of her, eyes locked into her eyes once again. "You know that I'm no Marvel superhero—I can't be anywhere, anytime I want. I'm a member of the **S**pecial **T**actics **A**nd** R**escue** S**quad—I mean, this is one serious job where I can't be there to help you all the time." He then gave a gleaming look at Claire's eyes. "But that doesn't mean I can always do without your help—there's always gonna be a time where I'll actually need you, so it's a good idea to be ready for any of it."

"Yeah," she said sarcastically while giving a nod, "Yeah, I feel _real_ special now, thanks." She smiled at himher mouth quickly reclining towards a frown.

"Look, there will be moments when I'll probably be" His eyeballs shifted toward the sky as his open palms rotated in circular motions trying to come up with ideas. "in a lab full of nasty fuckin' tarantulasor maybe I'll be trapped in some creepy mansion full of zombie-freaks, only armed with a dinky pistol and knife." He shrugged. "Anything can happen to me, Claire, and sometimes I won't be able to get out of it without some help from a person like you." 

Claire gave a sweet look at her brother as if he were her boyfriend. A well-masked sarcastic look. "All right Chris, I'll just keep this in mind and it will just _never_ happen," she said while her seemingly heartwarming expression melted into a disgusted frown. Her eyes glared down at his feet as if he had slapped her for trying to be a prostitute. 

A warm hand appeared over Claire's shoulder again. "No, don't you say that I won't ever need you," Chris said. "Let's just say that I'll need your help. And I'll need it a lot promise."

"Okay then, fine," she said, still looking down. "You just go away before we can get any closer as brothers and sisters, geez." She was always paranoid that one day something horrible like falling in love could happen between them. She tried cheerfully brushing her hand away to shoo him off. But her head rose to face her brother instead. She loved him, and would've shown a lot more affection if it wasn't for his ways of pissing her off. And if she weren't so pissed off, she could give him all the love and affection—below the ranks of incest, of course. Claire had no place in _Jerry Springer_. 

Chris smiled, knowing how sarcastic his sister had become over the years. His sister could see the tall pile of pride in his eyes. "Hey, I'll see ya Claire, you just go on and kick some ass—win some Moto Cross Championship or something. Hell, go to the Summer Olympics for shooting," Chris said. "Bring home a gold medal for the family." He was showing her all of his pride for a couple of the things he had taught her. He started walking away from her. His boots shuffled the gravel beneath them, causing a rustle that sounded slushy; fading as if diminished to an echo from a faraway cave. 

And a faraway cave he was headed to. 

Claire couldn't seem to find a proper farewell to her most beloved brother. Deep inside, she wanted to make this moment worthwhile, but she couldn't now—he was practically disappearing from her very eyes. 

What do I need to do, she thought,_ throw a parade with strippers from the local stripclub?_ She then decided to do what was really meant to be done at the moment. 

Claire waved at her brother with a smile. This time the smile was intended. "Go on," she said. "See you sometimebye." How sweetto simply smile and wave, especially from a sister who, along with her blessed brother, have maintained a constant heartwarming brother to sister relationship that was just as extinct in other families as the roaring dinosaurs. A tear, growing from the flood welling up in the bottom lid of her left eye, scratched its way down the skin of Claire's cheek. It fell off the bottom of her face with the speed of a comet fading into the night sky. There, she was now being more like herself, instead of that senseless bitch the departure of her brother made her act as. 

He walked away towards the darkness, vanishing with the wind—and from her life. For a moment it seemed as if Chris was to continue walking and not make any gesture to prove to Claire that his long career at Raccoon City was going to be a simple short trip after all, and she would then actually have a chance to see him more often than she had expected. Claire had simply miscalculated that judgment. 

Chris turned around and gestured his goodbye. He placed two of his fingers on his lips, silently kissing it and playfully pointed to her using those same fingers. So he was going to be gone for a while. Perhaps forever. 

"_Bye_," she whispered to herself. "_And this time, I'm _really_ going to miss you."_

Her big brother then disappeared. 

After a couple years of silence from him, Claire quickly began to realize that most of the "your help" crap coming from Chris that day had been bullshit. He hadn't phoned her; he hadn't paged her once; he hadn't even written her a goddamn letter. So she gave up with the possibility of seeing him. She was retaliating to a fact proven correct by doing the same thing he had done to her: lose touch. There was practically no way she could believe anything her brother could say again—she had deliberately lost interest in seeing or even helping her brother. 

That is, until now

The pager belonging to Claire Redfield went off while she had her hot shower. The noise gave out a muffled, electronic _dit-dit, dit-dit, dit-dit _from her sink counter. 

After she finished washing those _2000_ body parts, her hands grabbed two towels, wrapping one around her firm breasts and the other around her waist. She walked through the fog caused by the shower and to her sink. She pulled her shoulder-length hair back with a brush; her brown hair seemed to look a bit permed at some small sections when it was wet, but overall, it was still fine and straight. She picked up her pager and glanced at the liquid crystal display. It said in computerized digits: **3845 425**. 

425 was Chris's code, or was his code when he last saw her. But she recognized the **3845** immediately. A clever smile appeared on her face. "So it's finally _years_ later, Chris" she said with the smile, "that you finally decide to call me in." Her left hand slowly floated to rest on her waist as she glanced at her _Motorola._

The telephone rang. 

She quickly rushed toward the couch where the phone was at and picked it up. _"Hello?" _Claire said in her softest tone.

"_RedfieldClaire Redfield,"_ a voice rasped though the speaker. It wasn't Chris, but that particular rasp chilled her spine like piercing icicles.

"What," she said. Her eyes narrowed to dark slits. 

"You remember" the voice hesitated. _"What day is it today."_

"Huh?!" She nearly grew unconscious.

_"Yesssstoday is the deadline."_

"But you told me that it was to be around next—"

_"THERE ARE NO BUTS TO US! Either you do, or I slit that fucking throat of yours—now we wouldn't want that pretty neck all gushing with your blood now, do we?_" The breathing whisper was creepy, sounding nearly inhuman. Methodical. 

Claire took a deep breath, hearing her pulse thudding her ears. "Okay, okay, I'll do it now, but how do you want it done?"

_"Today's gonna be a special day for Raccoon City—it'll be easy for you. No cops, no securitynothing to get into your way. But Claire, I have to tell yousomething truly wonderful is going to happen to Raccoonand its fuckin spectacular."_

_Shit, _she thought, _how the Hell am I going to do that while trying to find Chris?_ "But wait," she said, "I do all thistoday?"

_"You get the stuff, Claire, and we meet you in the city tonight. You leave NOW, you hear me, my good ripe little pink peach?"_

"Right." She said reluctantly. The more that voice spoke to her, the more she wanted to strangle the man who owned it. 

"If you don't get it, Claire" The voice paused, letting her hear the metallic sound of a gun's hammer draw back. "_You'll end up like my bitch collection hereand most likely a lot worse than that. You understand?" _

"Yeah, I get it," Claire said softly to the phone harassing her. 

"_That's good, Claire, you learn quick. I'm sure you learned at a lot faster rate thanlet's see, Teresa and Charlie"_

Claire closed her eyes, sealing them shut, as if the harder she pressed her eyelids together, the more pain she could shield away from the mention of those names. 

"Stop it," she said. "Please, I'll do it but just please" 

_"You think Ben Stuller would like to hear you say that? I bet you were glad to see that rat fuck lying on the floor next to your buddies, didn't you?"_ The voice was now torturing Claire, torturing her like it did since she was forced into the Circle. It was mechanical, viciously murderous, and as if that wasn't enough, it was also relentless. 

It was like that simply because Claire couldn't do anything about it. If given the chance, the owner of the voice would have found itself more than strangled, but shot and stabbed like what she already did to one of them.

"You just say one more word about them—" 

_"And what, Redfield? You forget about me, Claireand you forget about US. We control EVERYTHING. We see your every move, we feel you—we watch you. And as long as you do as we say, we have every right"_

"Yeah, and you can just keep your every right,'" Claire said, briefly unaware this behavior can get her killed. "But to let you know, if you want me to do my job, for once just_be quiet_." 

The voice laughed, chuckling and eventually cackling over what Claire had said. The raspy mystery enshrouding the voice disappeared while he laughed, revealing a portion of his true voice in the malicious chortle. 

_"Guess Bartowen was right after allyou are one feisty woman,"_ the voice whispered again. It was nearly frightening at how controlled the voice was. _"But remem-ber, Claireor you'll end up as one of my gifts I have shown for you here"_

Suddenly, on the other line, Claire heard the muffled cries of at least several women screaming—screaming at the owner of the voice closing in on them. She could make out an occasional "No" and "Please don't hurt me" from one of the women from wherever the owner of the voice kept them.

Then she heard the gunshots and the multiple screams—ear-piercing ones—

accompanying the exit of bullets from whatever pistol he had. 

_"Good-bye, Claire. Pleasant hunting."_

A loud _Click _followed. He hung up. The dial tone followed, rolling through Claire's ears like a river of blood. Her anger, eventually after several seconds, resided. 

She placed the phone down and started dressing. She had no idea how to find Chris now and, at the same time, pull out that duty her brother would simply shoot her for. She was a changed person from the last time he saw her: rebellious, smart, and now a law-breaker. A law-breaker that had allowed so many to die in front of her. 

She emerged from her bedroom wearing thick light-red biker clothes. Unlike her biker garb, which were cut off shorter than it, the spandex-type material underneath her clothes were cut off at the arms, exposing them. The reddish vest-like garb was unzipped a third of the way, revealing more of the black, tight material. She wore _very_ short cutoff jeans that would have revealed the whole side of her thighs if it wasn't for the same black tights running a fourth of the way down them. From most of her thighs down, the legs drawing most bar men wild were there, smiling and acting pretty. 

Claire tied her hair back in a ponytail after strapping her Bowie knife upside-down on the left collarbone beside her neck. She could feel light strands of her own brown hair gently fingering the sides of her face. After taking whatever else she needed, she grabbed her black helmet and walked outside to her Harleythe morning sun had already began to burn the dusty Earth.

She sighed. "Raccoon City, a five hour drive I'm about to embark on" she strapped her helmet on, noticing the intense heat "all in _this_ arid weatherwonderful." She stomped on the pedal, erupting the engine in rapid sputters. "Let's just hope I don't run out of gas." She twisted the handle and sailed away toward the dawn. 

3

"I've already checked her name three times," Nathan Lieu said, both hands rested on his peach-fuzz head. "I guess you might have to go to Admitting down there through the double doors. I'll assure you that you'll find your mother there." He gestured toward the large opening across the lobby. It stood right beside the Gift Shop. 

The man Nathan spoke to had a face flowing with the most angst and impatience he had ever seen in his life. The face grew red and got even worse at every word he said. In fact, it looked to be the color of Hawaiian Punch after Nathan tried sending him down to the Admitting Department. 

"You don't understand! I must find her _NOW!_" The man shouted, striking both fists on the marble counter of the Lobby desk. He turned around strolling back and forth, swinging his arms as if he were laying pairs of Karate chops at invisible opponents.

Sofia looked at Nathan with serious eyes. _"Should I call security?"_ she whispered.

Nathan shook his head. "No, just wait until he really does something threatening _then _I'll give you the signal, but in the meantime" he whispered while glancing at the red security buttons beside him and his partner. The buttons were under the lobby desk, which surrounded the back of the lobby like a large fortress. "You just stay put and act pretty, you Pinay princessyou got that?"

She nodded as if he were her bodyguard. 

"Okay." Nathan smiled nervously. 

He looked up at the man, who was still strolling about, muttering something to himself. The man was a tall, white American, around 6'2", rather average build, and had one _really_ ugly crewcut hairstyle. He must of had his hair done at _Supercuts_. 

Crewcut stopped right in front of the wide lobby desk. He stood there taking a deep breath. His lips fused together to form a puffing hill on his clenched mouth. 

"Sir," Nathan said, his hands (and demeanor) set in a negotiating fashion, "I understand that you miss your mother very much. Although her name does not appear on our computer at this time, you will surely find her if you go to Admitt—"

"FUCK ADMITTING, YOU GOOK!" Crewcut leaned over the lobby counter, yelling at Nathan's face. The yell sent a spray of his spit all over him.. He then drew his body back so that he was standing erect in front of the desk again. "Doesn't this damn hospital understand that all the fucking information should all be _here_?!" He pointed a stiff finger down towards the ground. "HERE?!" 

Nathan casually wiped his face. There wasn't a sign of fear in him—except his heart, which was just _crazy_ at this moment. Nathan looked up at Crewcut's face again. "Look, we're just volunteers here—we don't even get paid to do what we do. We aren't exactly professionals in this area eitherso don't you want to speak to people that can tell you everything you need to know?"

Crewcut nodded his head. "Yeah, I really do," he said calmly. 

Nathan gave him a welcoming nod. "Okay, that's good to know. Now we can settle this—"

"BUT I WANT TO KNOW EVERYTHING I WANT TO KNOW _HERE!_ _HERE,_ ON THE FUCKING INFORMATION DESK! NOT IN ADMITTING, YOU LITTLE SHIT—" 

"Mister, do you want to see your mother?" Sofia interrupted in a demanding tone. Her voice sounded rather high-pitched and also very pleasing to hear. 

Crewcut abruptly turned his head. "Yes I do, you chink bitch!" 

Sofia blinked. "Then why don't you go _find_ her." Sofia said with a harsh tone. "And don't call me a bitchbecause you know I'm not one!"

Crewcut chuckled. "I hate you lil Asiansall of you coming here and trying to take over America with your shitty brains" He gave a demented smile that looked like a sneer. "The moment I see Raccoon City full of Asians" He chuckled evilly. "Is the moment where I start killing every last one of you like roaches."

Nathan gave Crewcut a fierce stare. Even though Nathan himself was a small guy—his height being around 5'3"—that never meant crap whether or not he was hopeless in these kinds of situations. 

In fact, if his spirit ever came out his height would really be 7 feet.

"Hey man," Nathan said. "Don't make this into some racial issue. We came here to make a living like your great ancestors did hundreds of years ago so don't come to us trying to mess with the way we are because certainly the Indians were the first to own this land before _you_ hauled your ass here!" Nathan pointed at him while giving the signal. His left fist pounded the desk. He saw Sofia press the button in the corner of his left eye. _Damn it, _Nathan thought, _I might of done that a little too obvious._

All he could hope for now was to kill some time before security arrived.

Crewcut laughed. He howled through the lobby like some wolf. Then he stopped laughing. "Man!" Crewcut said as his head made a large swooping nod. His voice now sounded rather pubescent and youngish like. "You sneaky Asians! Tell me you didn't call security!" 

_What a crazy, disturbed nut-case,_ Nathan thought. Raccoon City was already full of enough deranged lunatics—why should there be any more of them like this one? 

Crewcut eventually stopped laughing. He leaned forward until his head stood a few feet away from Nathan's. An angry look appeared on his face. "Did you just signal that _bitch_ to push the button?"

"No," Nathan said innocently. 

"I know you did, you yellow bastard."

Sofia was trembling. "Maybe she's in ICUor ER! Just leave us alonewe don't know a damned thing you're saying!"

Crewcut's head abruptly turned. "Shut up," he said as his neck twisted back to face Nathan. 

"Now why would I do that?" Nathan grinned. "To somebody desperately searching for his mother? Go _Fuck_ yourself, you mama's boy." He then drew a finger at Crewcut. "And don't you talk to my partner that way!" 

Oops, did he piss off poor mama's boy? 

Nathan suddenly heard a metallic _flicking_ sound. A shiny pointed object appeared from Crewcut's right hand. Nathan could feel his eyes beginning to shake as it focused. 

He had a switchblade.

"Now look at me," Crewcut said. "You call PBX and tell them it was all an accident—you accidentally pressed it." He stared at Nathan with serial killer eyes. He looked like a psychotic Robert De Niro. "If you don't," he said, "then I'll go" He made a throat-slitting gesture across the neck, crackling out a _kkkkk!_ sound. 

"Hey!" Sofia cried out in a shivering voice. "Maybe she's in ERor CCU!" 

Crewcut's head turned as he raised the knife over him. "Will you SHUT UP?!" he yelled. "I've already checked there!" The head turned to face Nathan again.

Sofia crossed her arms. She stared angrily at him and mouthed the word _asshole_ with her lips.

"Do it," Crewcut said. 

"Do what?" Nathan asked.

He raised the blade. "Call them _now_, dammit."

The phone rang. Its jittery chimes fluttered through the silent lobby.

"Don't answer it," Crewcut said. 

"It might be a nurseI could then ask about your—"

"Don't you touch that phone!"

The phone drummed a second ring. 

"How am I going to call PBX if the damn phone is ringing?" Nathan asked.

There was a pause to Crewcut's response. The phone hollered a third time. It now sounded annoyingly monotonous. 

"All right, answer the fucking phone" Crewcut said.

Nathan picked it up. His eyes were locked onto Crewcut's. "Lobby desk, this is Nathan Lieu, how may I help you," he said, using the specific phrase Volunteer Training taught him. 

_"We got him through the cameras"_ The feminine voice of the operator whis-pered. _"Security's on their way, just stay calm for a couple seconds"_

"All right, I'm on my way." Nathan answered. He put the phone down in its place. He looked up at Crewcut again. "The nurses need one of us to discharge a patient," he said. 

Crewcut let out a long sigh. He turned around, back facing them. His eyes did not catch the camera. It sat above, watching him like a shrewd owl. 

_Thank God were dealing with a _stupid_ nut-case here,_ Nathan thought. 

Crewcut then murmured something and turned around.

No, he _spun_ around.

Nathan ducked under the desk. He felt the swinging blade miss the top of his head by less than an inch. To his side, he heard Sofia gasp as he rushed to pull his office chair in front of him and the desk. The chair rolled towards him, serving as a shield. Nathan Lieu, one of Washington Hospital's elite group of volunteers, sat crouched under the lobby desk while a madman bent over the counter, swiping at him left and right with a switchblade. He could already see the newspaper article—and maybe the obituary following it. 

"LIAR! YOU FUCKING THOUGHT I WAS SOME DUMB-ASS, DID YOU?! DID YOU?!" Crewcut's voice roared through the wood and marble of the Lobby desk. "NOW I'M GONNA CUT YOU UP, YOU CHINK FUCKER!"

Nathan saw a flurry of white papers gliding in front of him. _His swinging had caused it._ He held the chair tight with both hands. _God help us,_ he thought.

There was a dull _thump_ from above. The sound began to cross over him. A pair of casual shoes abruptly landed in front of his frightened self and the chair. He was there, standing above, and Nathan had nothing but a chair to protect himself. 

"NOW I GOTCHU, YOU LITTLE RUNT!" Crewcut shouted. His blade came down toward the backside of the chair. It rocked violently as Crewcut continually slashed at it—a portion of its plastic covering began to shred and reveal the soft cushioning underneath. Crewcut screamed in frustration, his neck churning with sinew. 

He then tried jabbing at Nathan through the exposed openings. Nathan dodged the knife's rapid prodding. He moved the chair left to right, shielding every blow from reaching his skin. Another hand fused itself to the seat and tried pulling away the chair with massive jolts. 

Nathan's grip was slipping.

The chair jerked back. It ricochet off the Lost & Found cabinets and the spot where Sofia sat scrunched below the desk. Crewcut stood above Nathan, knife arm drawn back. The blade came down below the desk, swiping sideways toward Nathan's face. 

But Nathan wasn't there to eat it.

He already darted to the side of Crewcut's left leg like a water strider—still in crouching position. He grasped the man's knee with both hands, yanking it back as hard as he could—throwing Crewcut off balance. The left foot briefly floated off the ground as Nathan hurled the leg—and Crewcut—over several feet towards the right end of the lobby desk. It all happened within a second. 

Crewcut fell over on his side—his head bouncing on the hard linoleum floor with a quiet _thud._ The switchblade on his right hand flipped out of his fingers and spun away.

Nathan backed a few feet. His arms and legs were in a crab position. He heard a rustling sound behind him and glanced back. Sofia was frantically rummaging through her bag. She conjured a can of pepper spray along with a stun gun. Before he knew it, she was sailing over him and onto Crewcut's squirming body.

"Eat this, you fucking asshole!" Sofia crouched over Crewcut's face and rapidly sprayed his eyes with peppered fury. 

Crewcut screamed. His eyelids squirmed together, seeming to wheeze from the pain engulfing them. He wailed like an injured pig, twisting and flailing his arms trying to strike Sofia. His hands then went to rub his eyes as he shivered in a manner that looked like he was suffering from chills. "My eyes!" he cried out, scrubbing his eyes. "My eyes!"

"Oh, you like that?" she tormented him. "How bout _this!_" The crackling _Bzzzzzz_ of the stun gun came to life. "Next time you call me a bitch, I'm gonna get all my friends on you! You're gonna feel pain a thousand times worse than _this!_" She stabbed the stun gun down Crewcut's _groin_ and squeezed the button.

She actually drilled the damn thing into his balls. 

He hollered, vibrating as if he were having convulsions. His arms and legs stuck out like popsicle sticks glued on a vibrator. Crewcut's lips jiggled as his neck stiffened, showing lines of tendon and veins. The eyeballs full of the self-defense liquid were rolled up—leaving nothing but white blankness. 

Sofia pulled the tazer back from Crewcut's groin. She got up to her feet. Her lips were parted as she stood panting—her chest rising and falling. 

"I think he's had enough, Sofia," Nathan said. The body was curled up like a grub. It shivered as mutilated sheets of sweat crawled all over him. 

Sofia turned her head. She grinned at Nathan—the upward crease on her mouth was malicious as it was sweet. She faced Crewcut again. "Die!" Sofia screamed, kicking Crewcut's groin in rapid successions. The squirming body bounced sideways from the spot it lay. Crewcut moaned, his voice sounding like a child's muffled pleas. Nathan saw a dark patch appearing on the spot where Crewcut's now-defected penis resided.

Now was that the white shit, or the lemonade? Nathan thought. 

Piss, he nodded to himself while thinking, _had to beIt'd happen to me if she had also shake n baked MY balls._ He stood up and noticed an elderly couple standing in front of the lobby desk. Nathan smiled as he raised an index finger. "We'll be with you in a minute," he nodded amidst Sofia's violent display. 

The elderly couple both nodded dumbfoundedly. "It's all right," the old man said while smiling. Nathan had noticed that his eyes (along with his frail but charming-looking wife beside him) were seriously widened, and the light-blue pigment in his eyes showed. "We'll be moving along," he continued, and they both stared at Sofia as she constantly slammed Crewcut in the groin with her black clog-like shoes. They then strolled down to the elevators hand to hand, their faces paled with disbelief.

Nathan wrapped his arms around Sofia's waist. He picked her up and backed her away from Crewcut. She was rather petite—5'2"—but then again, she was practically Nathan's height. She calmed down after he picked her up, her rapid swinging legs slowing to pathetic efforts. Nathan could hear her soft breath puffing beside his ear.

"He's wasted," Nathan said as he placed her down on her feet. "It's over."

Sofia sighed as she gave Nathan a hug. "Yeah, I hope he never gets to use his thing again," she sighed once more, catching her breath, "My God Nate, that was hella freaky I was real scared he might of killed us or something." The arms grew tight, compressing him like a trash compactor. "Thank you for first pushing him down, I owe you one." 

Nathan wheezed from beneath the tight pressure. He gave out a sound in between a whimper and a whine. "Ooh, no problem—actually, I should thank _you_ for doin him in like that, and maybe you can try being a little softer when showin some love—I can hardly breathe" He began to smile.

Her squeeze tightened. She also smiled as her head brushed against him.

Footsteps filled the lobby. Two R.P.D. officers, along with some of the hospital security sprinted toward them. The cops had cyan-colored shirts and black pants. Security had on the usual white and black. 

"Is everything all right here?" A familiar-looking cop asked the both of them. 

Nathan unlocked himself from Sofia. He was amazed by the sudden appearance of the cop. "Officer Russell, what're you doing here?! Aren't you supposed to be at my school or something?" 

Standing around 6'3" was Officer Russell, Irvington High School's resource officer. He held a 12-gauge shotgun by the stock-less handle. The arm holding it was speckled with small blood spots. He patted Nathan on the shoulder. "Was just called up for special duty. You all right, Nathan?" 

"Yeah, I'm fine." 

Russell glanced at Crewcut and looked back. He gave a disgusted look. "What the Hell happened here?" 

"Sofi here gave him the kiss of death," Nathan said, patting her back. He saw Sofia give out the that-didn't-really-happen kind of look. He then focused his attention upon Russell again. "But hey, what's wrong with the arm?"

Russell glanced at his blood-peppered arm. "A little problem' in ER. It's a damn mess in there" He shook his head. "Christ."

"Why, what's wrong?" 

"You haven't heard?" Russell looked at him in disbelief. "It's a nightmare right now. There's a recent contamination scare in Raccoonhappened early in the morning. Has the whole city in panic." His face grew pale as he stared at the floor.

"You know," Nathan said, looking at the ground. "I never knew about any of it. They just called me up here this morning for emergency." He glanced at Russell's shotgun. "That's a nice shotgun you got therearmy issue?"

Russell cocked the 12-gauge monster. A shell rolled out the top. It fell and danced on the floor, causing metallic _clinks_. "Yep, the Remington M870," he said while probing it with his eyes. "It's black, has that sawed-off look, and deadly." 

Another R.P.D. officer tapped Russell in the back. He looked old and rugged. "This guy's in serious condition," he said. "We have to bring him to CCU or something." 

Russell stared at the body. "Go toss him into the street—hospital's full," he muttered as he walked away. The rest of the security officials walked out the lobby, dragging Crewcut out the sliding door. 

4

Leon parked his car in a screeching halt. Dozens of police officers crowded the streets surrounding his black and white Chevy _Caprice_. He caught glimpse of a wide flight of stairs ascending to the entrance of _the_ building. Above the entrance, there was a large sign laced with gold-colored borders and that fat, nice symbol. It said:

**R.P.D.**

**Raccoon City Police Department**

The structure of the building reminded Leon of the Lincoln Memorial. The stairway-to- Heaven type of structure only served to remind him that police work was more than just plain police work: it was an all-American pride. He thought to himself: _The coffee and donut stereotypes can kiss my assit's all about the American privilege of being a cop! _

An obese-looking policeman passed the front of Leon's car. He had a half-eaten donut and a cup of coffee in his thick, callused hands.

"Well,"he sighed, "maybe I should take that back." He then turned his head around, scanning for any more stereotypes. 

Every cop within the dozen clustered groups had coffee and donuts in their hands.

"Well, well," he said to himself. "I guess today's special rookie stands out around here: he eats bagels with milk." He slipped on a pair of his finger-less black gloves, noticing the rectangular leather opening on the back of his covered hand. He smiled as he made a fist with his left hand. "Show time," he said.

The ambient sounds of policemen, sirens, footsteps, and donut munches surroun-ded Leon as he climbed the steps toward _the shinin' sign._ Only one thing he observed seemed to worry him. So far, he could only point out one wrong out-of-the-ordinary thing about Raccoon City. And it already began to scare him.

It was the air.

He froze amid the steps, sniffing the moist breeze of the cold morning. It was much different from when he last sniffed it earlier in the day, which smelled like nothing but garbage and car exhaust—typical in a city like this one. But this time there was something dead about the airsomething that made Leon shiver. 

The air smelled evil; it smelled dead, like a rotting corpse.

He shook his head. _Probably cremating lots of dead bodies today,_ Leon thought. 

But that must be one hell of a job those guys are doing! One Hell of a job! 

Leon smiled to himself as he continued his way up the steps. Nothing like a little paranoia in your head. He walked towards the entrance leading into the building.

5

The heat wasn't really so bad as Claire thought it'd be. 

That is, only when you were doing over 100 in a deserted highway. 

The piercing wind smashed Claire's face as she scrolled across desert dunes and cactuses of the searing morning heat. Her face felt as if a hand stretched the skin on the corners of her mouth and cheeks. But she liked it; liked it a lot.

She smiled and twisted the handle further, hearing the whir of the engine beat louder. For some strange reason, it felt as if she were beating eggs. _It's probably because I'm kicking so much redneck trucker ass on this road_, her thoughts grinned. 

She had already passed several cars during her hard ride—none being the police unfortunately. She loved outwitting the police in these kinds of roads. It gave her a sense of wit and the only kind of satisfaction only found in winning. The Highway Patrol were her favorites—although the cars provided more challenges to her rough lifestyle. Her rough lifestyleshe smiled. When will Chris realize just how different his sweet little sister had become? Probably until he settles into retiring will he know at this rate. 

But he will never know how much she had missed him. Never. 

After a month following his absence, Claire had tried out several new things. Most revolved around whatever Chris had brought down to her. Whether it was the mastery of firearms, self-defense, Moto Cross Racing, and Harley Davidsons, in between those pastimes, the thought of Chris would always spring out from the very depths of her memory. The thought of him was sometimes unbearable. 

"Let's just say that I'll need your help. And I'll need it a lot promise."

_"Promise,"_ he had said. _"Promise."_ Claire could still taste her tears that night.

The thunderstorm had illuminated the dark room while she was sobbing to herself. Sobbing to her younger self a year after her brother had left. Instead of waiting to help Chris, she needed his help. She needed it right away.

Her Moto Cross team had all been slaughtered. One of the only families she ever had in her life were stacked over one another like Holocaust victims. Their blood lay splattered all over the white walls and shelves of gold trophies and curtained all over them like a finale of death. The dozens of newspaper clippings tacked on the boards were wrinkled in red. She saw her picture and a bunch of others from her team featured in the articlessmiling. Smiling in red. She was now alone to fend for herself. Chris was one of the only ones left in her life that really mattered—and he was gone. Gone away into the S.T.A.R.S. 

She was not furious at Chris—never will be. She was grievingand wondering what in God's name had happened to the very life she cherished and held so close to. Her buddies Kristy, Ben, Tony, Henry, Charlie, PJ, and the rest of themthey were all dead—all ten of them. 

Dead. 

All dead except one. 

And it wasn't Claire. 

Her eyes scanned the bodies again. There was eleven in the team, including her own self; thirteen in all living in the trailer. _Who was the missing member of the family?_ Claire's mind was numb at the moment and couldn't string her thoughts together as she normally could. Her mentality couldn't handle what was going on—it felt like her brain might surge through her eyes or something. She shook her head. But she had to fight it—keep her cool if she wanted to get anywhere from this; be tough. Her bright, sky blue eyes rolled its way toward the bodies again. The storm outside blinded the room. She saw Ben Stuller's face staring at her from the pale bluehis lips, along with his cheeks, were torn off, revealing the fine set of teeth he used to show whenever she made clever wisecracks at his so-called skills. 

WHO is missingher mind clamored once more, bringing her on track again. Her eyes shifted from Kristy to Rose, then to Charlie. 

A happy image of a little girl fluttered in her mind.

"Teresa!" she screamed through the darkness. She hoped for an answer.

But there was no answer. The room lit up, casting a bright cyan color on everything—especially the dark crimson oozing off the walls.

Amidst her own sobbing, she dashed frantically through the trailer, peeking in every corner and crevice for any hopes in finding Teresa. She looked in the bathroom, and even the secret hiding place she used to play hiding-go-seek with her. No luck. Needles of rain drummed the shingled roof, causing a sound similar to the crisping of plastic bags. 

She heard a scream outside.

Claire twisted her head towards the shrieking sound. She pulled a large Bowie knife hanging from the wall. It was Charlie's prized possession. He had used it for his many bar fights against the "redneck bastards" predicted that he would come across—he loved that knife only second to his motorcycle. 

"_Charlie_," she whispered. "_This will be for youand the family. May everyone rest in peace._" Her grip tightened as she started for the door.

Sharp raindrops smashed into her face, tickling it. She saw nothing from where the sound originated from except the street lights and the black car. The Black Limousine.

She ducked behind a bush. A tall, dark figure moved its way down toward the driveway where Claire stood several feet away. There was something he had in his hands and was dragging it. 

It was Teresa.

The young ten-year-old flailed her arms around, trying to break free from the man's solid hands. She tried struggling from him like a swan attempting to escape from the zoo keeper. Her blond hair waved and bounced within the man's tight grasp. "Let me go!" her high-pitched voice cried. "Please, let me go!" 

Then with a sudden movement, the man tossed the squealing little girl into the air and pulled out a silver pistol. His aim fastened toward Teresa as the forces of gravity pulled her down. 

Claire stood up. "No!" she screamed. "Teresa!"

A part of the cute girl burst in sync with her quiet _thud_ to the ground. He had shot Teresa in the forehead. The damp hair behind her head flapped as if controlled by a gust of wind. The hair was no longer blond—it was now red. Blood red.

Teresa, ten years old, a happy robust member of the family—and the last remain-der of all of them—was dead. The hole pressed through her forehead was peaceful—as Claire always remembered her to be. Like her team had been also. The blood did not gush out the gaping hole—instead, it curled and twisted its way down Teresa's face in staccato ribbons of dark red. Her still eyes stared at her. Claire held herself from bursting into tears. 

Claire, can you promise me something?

Sure Teresa, tell me. 

You're positive there are no monsters under my bed?

Of course not, you silly Biker Princess! There are absolutely no monsters under your bed, positive! And whatever it is, I'll always promise to you that if there were any, your good friend Claire will never, ever, ever

Ever?

ever let those monsters hurt you—promise.

Promise? Really, are you for real this time?

Have I ever lied to you?

No.

Then it's answered, kid sister, it's answered. 

Teresa's brown eyes did not blink. The face was losing color, decomposing before Claire's eyes—being stripped of complexion from the thick layer of blood dripping away from her facial features. Claire held her knife tightly, almost naturally. Her sadness became her anger. She took her eyes off the girl's corpse and seized with her eyes the dark figure standing beside Teresa's body.

The man stood there, his pistol arm rested by his side—he had his back facing her. She lunged over the bushes, dashing through the rain. The sky lit up in a blue flash. The image of the man grew larger as Claire sprinted at him, knife hand ready to drive his back into the faces of Hell. Her heart exploded with energy; her teeth gritted with rage.

But the man turned around and raised his silver automatic pistol towards her forehead. He did not fire. He grinned pleasantly. 

Claire stopped dead in her tracks. Her blue eyes stared down the wide tunnel of the automatic's barrel. 

"Maybe I should be more fair with you," the man said while shining a pair of his teeth. "YesI should be." He then laughed, filling the air with a demonic presence. "I don't need a gun to kill a bitchall I need is a fat dick." He tossed his gun away from the reach of both of them. "Come on," he threw his fists up. "Show daddy how a pretty doll can fight with a knife." 

Claire stood still, her knife poised to strike at any sudden movement. 

He started prancing around as if he were shadow boxing. He threw a couple mock jabs landing a few inches from her face. "Come on, woman! What you waiting for? Show me something I'll never forget!" He then tossed another set of playful mock jabs. 

Her stance was still, only choosing to move whenever he chose to encircle her and force her to keep her own distance. She was to live her own promise. 

"Don't make me pull the fucking moves on you right now bitch, I'll just kill you woman, _kill_ you like this one I just—" 

She burst into a fighting stance and made a wide swipe at his arms. She saw a horizontal dark line appear from both forearms. Black slivers of liquid oozed from where the knife dug into. 

The prancing figure chuckled. "Yeah, that's more like it. I like a feisty slut like you...one who will FUCKING LICK THE CUM OFF MY HARD COCK!" His sudden outburst came out uncontrollably. Claire could pretty much see the rolling waves of hate emanating from his distorted face, like shockwaves from a recent intergalactic explosion. His right hook, armed and ready to destroy, followed that burst.

Claire moved as swift as the lightning blinding them. She grabbed his right arm with both hands as her right knee launched up his groin. He winced, the facial features shifting inwards as if a Black Hole rested on the same spot his nose was and sucked his face inwards. Claire then twisted her body around one full, arched semi-circle, bringing him over her shoulder. He rolled over her back and flipped in mid-air. Suspended in air for less than a second, his body landed back-first onto the ground beside her feet. 

His eyes grew wide with terror. Claire dropped to her knees and slammed the 8-inch blade down his chest. He gasped, the force so powerful it sent splotches of red gore all over her face and dripping clothes. 

She stood up to her feet, staring at the Bowie's handle protruding from his chest—

and his heart. She wiped the blood from her face, which had stung her soft skin from its impact. The body twitched several times before beginning to shiver violently. Claire stared at him in the face. 

He was one of Bartowen's men—the hit men. His mouth was wide open, gagging from the blood welling up his throat. Thin streams gushed from the sides of his mouth. Claire saw that his eyes, black in the lit darkness, were now staring emotionless at the sky. 

She heard approaching footsteps behind herand laughter, a dark, amused kind of laugher. Her eyes narrowed.

Bartowen. 

"And I never thought a woman could be so capable!" his voice erupted. It sounded as harsh and ruthless as it was with the darkness its laughter portrayed. 

Claire quickly pulled out the knife from the hit man. Large goblets of warm blood splashed onto her arms. It settled for a moment before rolling away, itching her skin like scurrying ants. She turned around.

Bartowen kept his smile at her. It was as if it was permanently etched over his face. "Ah, the PMS, bitch aggression," he said warmly. He spread his arms out, showing Claire his expensive suit. His body seemed a reasonable target to cut open. He flashed a glowing grin from the shadows. "What are you waiting for, Redfield?" His eyebrows narrowed. "_Do it"_

Kill him, her instincts called out. 

Claire's mind flared with anger. She lunged at Bartowen, the Bowie positioned so that she could just slice through his neck with one single pass. 

A dark shape sprung forth from the darkness. It appeared in front of Bartowen like a specter. Claire began to stagger as she swung at the hit man with blind rage. 

The jujitsu was too quick to avoid. He twisted her arm and the knife fell from her grip. Claire then suddenly found herself down on her back looking up at the tall foreboding face of the replacement killer. He then made a move so swift she barely had any idea about it. One hand grabbed her hair and jerked upward. The other hand lay floated beside the front of her face. She heard a metallic _slap_ from one of his sleeves. A gun abruptly revealed itself from the floating darkness, and he rested its muzzle beneath her left eye. She felt the cold ringed shape of the barrel freezing the flesh below her eye. 

Bartowen's stern face appeared from the side of her vision. "You know I don't want my friend here to ruin that pretty face of yours. I'm willing to let that go for you."

Claire grimaced, her eyes clenching shut. "_Fuck you,"_ she hissed at him.

Bartowen chuckled. He pulled out a match and placed the red bulb of its tip in between his front teeth and yanked at it. The match ignited, creating a bright orange dot in Claire's shiny eyes. 

"I like you, Claire," he said while lighting a cigarette clenched between his lips. "I like a tough woman like you." He casually waved the flame out from the match. A steady ribbon of smoke slithered from the ebony cap set upon the wood stem.

Claire stared at the ground panting wildly. She shivered from the rain dampening her clothes. "Just sh-shoot m-me," she said, her voice starting to deteriorate into a sob. "J-Just gh-get it over with."

"I enjoyed how you took out good ol' Mariano there," Bartowen said. "Now _that's_ entertainment, something to die for." He started to sound reassuring. 

His voice reminded Claire of a character from _The_ _Godfather_. But of course, every crime boss had to sound like a young Al Pacino or even a Marlon Brando every now an then. But Francis Ford Cappola's _The Godfather _was in fact the farthest thing from her mind at the momentshe was now sobbing before a lunatic that resembled _The Godfa-ther_. Not Marlon Brando or even Al Pacino, but a _real_ godfather. 

"And I'll make a deal with you" Bartowen said. "It's gonna spare you, since I see value in there. Isn't nothing like salvation in the hands of _tu diablo_, _eh _Redfield?" he chuckled before waving an arm in the air. 

The cold muzzle pressed against Claire's skin disappeared. She saw the silver object zip back up the hit man's sleeve. A hidden weapon, clever. 

Bartowen extended a hand. "Join me," he said, "or die. Simple, just like that." 

"N-Never." 

The satisfaction written all over his face abruptly erased itself. The palm he had extended towards her fell back to his side. 

"Claire," he said, still retaining his calming tone, "I'd like to inform you a fact that comes with my given opportunities. For the sane mindand the minds that cherish life, it is always wise to never refuse the options I offer you." Minuscule streaks of rain touched the lit portion of his cigarette, causing it to hiss alongside his words. "Since you may not fully understand whatever I'm saying, allow me to give you the tip of the iceberg' on what happens to people who say no to me." 

He raised an arm and snapped his fingers twice. The whole scene came alive.

In the rain, the trees, the Black Limo, and the darkness, dark silhouettes emerged from nowhere and stood behind Bartowen. Claire saw dozens of thin red beams appear from the trees surrounding her and the tall, burly figure. The rays of light centered over Claire and blanketed her body with glowing, ruby-colored dots. 

Snipers.

A cloud of smoke burst from Bartowen's mouth. "_Now_, do you understand the meaning behind a person telling you Never say _no_ to Bartowen'?" 

Claire sat motionless. Her face housed no apparent emotion. She had no choice, yet she wasn't afraid of death at the same time. The old Claire, a weakening part of herself, died that very moment. She suddenly became the Claire known today: the clever, strong-willed, fearless vixen her brother had hoped her to become. She had shown herself that fear did not reside inside her heart anymore—and had murdered to prove it. Her inner intention was not to die peacefully at this moment or to even join Bartowen so she could become his slave—she simply wanted his head on a spike. 

And the only way to accomplish that was to join him_then_ gut him like a fish.

The blue eyes shifted upward and stabbed into Bartowen's eyes—hoping to gouge them out. She let out a quiet, visually unnoticeable sigh. "Yes," she said, her sob vanishing. "Yes, count me in, Bartowen. I'd _love_ to join you." Of course, she said that sarcastically.

Bartowen laughed. The sky lit up once again, creating a sound muffling his malicious cackle. "Wonderful, Redfield, _wonderful._ Now isn't that a good sign already? You are in good hands now, Claire. Welcome into the Circle!" He flicked his cigarette into the puddle. The spent tobacco product hissed like a snake. 

_Welcome into the Circle. Welcomeyou dirty pussy, you._

Claire sneered at her reflection in the puddle.

_You are in great hands now. Pink little peach you. Welcome to the Circle._

A blaring horn slapped her awake. She was on the wrong lane. Claire sharply swerved her Harley into the right side of the road, barely missing the freighter truck by an inch.

"Watch where you're going, you _bitch!_" the fat trucker shouted from his window. 

Claire raised her left arm and flicked a middle finger at the redneck behind her. She did that while keeping her eyes locked on the road. _"Bartowen,"_ she whispered to herself. _"Bartowen."_ The night in the rain was the last time she ever saw him. 

He was an unusual leader in crime—not the usual Mafia stereotype either—in fact, he had no affiliation with the Mafia. Bartowen was his own personality and power. His power had climbed sharply over the years, spreading through several International countries like wildfire. But fortunately, he was the only indication of his power. He worked alone in his business and never placed power to anyone except his personal hit menhis secret Gestapo—his children of death.

And if he ever died, his secret army would be finished. Just like that. Finished.

Her life did not change much following her entry into the circle. Even though she was affiliated with Bartowen and his ambitious evils, she had little, or no part in a great deal of them. Her most basic job was to keep Bartowen's plans unknown and to help in his drug smuggling enterprises whenever needed. He provided her a nice house for itand a yearly wage similar to that of a doctor or maybe even a successful lawyer. Even though she had so much money, she still chose to work at various places. She didn't enjoy spending any of Bartowen's money—it was all blood and sin. So she kept a cool about the fact that Bartowen was the asshole of the year. She would just hoped for the fucking bastard to die any time soon.

And she had wished for it every day.

Because he was responsible for the family's death. Her Moto Cross family. 

She darted down the road again, doing once more over a hundred. A sign lighting through her squinted eyes said:

SPEED

LIMIT 

**55**

Claire giggled to herself. It was nice enough that she was actually starting to feel happy again in between all of this. A dark black object appeared in the distance before her. She accelerated, noticing the heat of the engine grow more intense in between her calves. The object grew in Claire's eyes until she could make out a dark shape on a motorcycle. 

The Highway Patrol! 

Claire was overjoyed. She hurled her screaming Harley closer to the man on the bike. She waited for the blaring siren. 

WaitIt wasn't the Highway Patrol. 

Instead, she saw a rather overweight guy on a Honda. He kind of looked like the rapper E-40 from where Claire laid her eyes upon. His helmet looked extra-sized to fit the large frame he had. _What you weighin, 350? _Claire thought, remembering a movie she had seen a few years ago called _Bad Boys_.

The E-40 look-a-like turned his head around and stared at Claire through gold-rimmed glasses. Hey, he really did look like E-40. 

Claire accelerated and brought her bike right beside his on the opposite lane. She noticed the man had on a navy blue shirt that said on the back in bold yellow letters: SCHOOL PATROL. Their eyes met again. Claire smiled and waved at him from the left lane, watching him smile in return. 

"Hi!" she shouted under the loud motor engines. Her grip on the acceleration handle tightened. "Bye!" her voice trailed again. She then cut in front of him, zipping ahead while watching his image once again reduce into a dark shape from her rear-view mirror. She smiled. "That was mean!" Claire giggled to herself. 

She loved passing people by that way with that superior motor of herseven though she did heartily regret doing it a bit. It relieved a lot of stress.

Her eyes stared at her gas meter and grew wide. She was almost out of gas— maybe a quarter of the tank left.

And she had only traveled for about an hour or twomaybe even three. 

"I thought it was full—what the Hell!" she cried, then she sealed her mouth shut. 

Claire then let out a sigh and kept her eyes on the road again. 

"I love you, Bartowen. I _love_ you" she said, her eyes narrowed as her mouth grew from devilish grin to bitchy sneer. Of course, she said that sarcastically. 

6

There was dense chatter in the police station as Leon strolled past milling cops and nameless agents of some sorts—he had no idea who was who around this jungle he once compared to the Lincoln Memorial minutes ago. The police station was huge—roughly the size of a three-story mansion. Leon stood there amazed and looked around, his head twisting left to right systematically like a radar dish. 

In the center of the large main hall sat an ivory-colored statue of a woman with a cube-like bucket resting on her right shoulder as if she were pouring water. Around the statue was a round border enclosing it into a waterless basin. To Leon it looked reminiscent of the Renaissance era. A crowd of officers passed by the statue, ignoring it— they obviously seemed to have much to do every day. He saw one fat, really ugly type of cop spit a ball of yellowish-green slime onto the statue. It rested on the woman's thigh for a moment before inching its way down, leaving a trail of shiny film like a slug.

"Thisthis statue" he heard the fellow cop mutter in a hoarse, phlegm-covered bark. "What the hell does Irons think this place isGotham City?!" 

Now why spit at the property of the **R**accoon City **P**olice **D**epartment? This had its way with Leon. That cop obviously had too much crap stuck up his ass. Way too much.

Leon briskly grabbed a towel that had been left on a counter somewhere and walked up to the statue. He struck the towel across the statue's thigh from where the cop's spit had lain like a knight delivering a final blow with his sword. 

Like a knight in shining armor protecting the kingdom's chivalry he was.

The towel flung around and covered the mucus mass in a split second. A faint sound of a _slap_ reminding Leon of his earlier years of towel-whipping his ex-girlfriend's ass appeared in his ears. Of course, that was just for fun—he was no cause for domestic violence. The tip holding the slippery film lay stretched and pointed down toward the marble floor. Leon then turned to face the statue beside him while bowing his head. "Your majesty," he said, trying to sound as Shakespearean as possible, "your respect has been regained. Now I shall exact retribution upon your honor." He smiled and turned to face the hoarse-voiced cop already a few feet away. He grit his teeth.

Leon flung the towel toward the cop's head. It spun in the air, rippling as the wind currents seeped through and wrapped itself around his head like those octopuses from _The_ _Discovery Channel_. 

At first, the cop's covered head spun around as if he were trapped in a net. Then his hands immediately ripped the towel away from his shiny bald head and turned around, shouting to the other cops around him. Amidst the dense laughter, Leon couldn't hear anything the cop said—he just saw his lips quickly juggle and jerk around to each cop he was suspecting. He didn't notice him.

Leon laughed out loud, the sound of his laughter muffled by the intense amount of noise surrounding the main hall. "Man, am I starting to love this new job," he said to himself. "Next thing you know, I'll be hired to protect city property." He smirked. 

"Umm, excuse me," a light feminine voice surprised Leon from behind. He turned around and saw a large-breasted (and rather pretty), blonde woman of about twenty. She said, "Do you know that officer you've just tossed a towel at is a highly-respected sergeant?" The expression on her face didn't seem to show any kind of angst to what he did at all. 

Leon smiled nervously. After a better glimpse of her, in raw opinion, Leon now can assume that this girl was _really _pretty. "Well," he said while crossing his arms, "he did deface police propertyI mean come on! He deserved what he got." He chuckled while noticing the woman's generously-sized breasts.

Her breasts were large enough to fulfill a DD cup—and any man's/woman's dream along with it. It rose from her spaghetti-strapped white tank top like rising biscuits from her every breath. Thin, silky bumps of flowers and other garden ornaments ran across the peak of them as outlines of the lacy bra appeared from the spot where her finely-shaped chest lay. She smiled at him.

_She really smiled at him. _

"I can see you enjoy what you are seeing," she said while smiling. 

Leon threw his eyes away from her breasts. He was rather surprised that he had been _staring_ at them for a little longer than just a glance. "Whoa," he chuckled, "really, I didn't mean to stare at anythingIwas just caught in a little flashback of some sort about the copmight've thought I known him if you already know what I'm saying" He smiled. It was somewhat of a white lie, but Leon knew by heart that cops had to keep private business to themselvescouldn't have no wiggling dicks and energetic cocks leaping from their pants without reason day by day anyway.

And also because it was _Leon Kennedy's first day on the job._

She giggled. "All right Mr. Policeman, you can say what you want to say," she said while stepping closer, smiling seductively. "But between us, we can assume that you wanted _that_ piece by piece," she said softly. The flat of her hand came to rest upon Leon's navy-blue bulletproof breastplate. On the armor plate, it said in large, bold white letters: **R.P.D.** She brought her mouth up right beside his ear. _"I think you're sexy,"_ she whispered, her warm breath softly brushing his earlobe. 

Leon grinned innocently. "Heywhat about that sergeant you were telling me aboutyou know" He was trying to change the subject—he surely didn't want a _Monica Lewinsky _subject brought up hereit was already everywhere, and why also end up in Raccoon City? 

"Oh, _him,_" she sighed as her eyes sunk low. "He's the one that busted me for prostitution, that's all." 

Leon's eyes widened. "You're a hooker?" He had been involved with numerous types in the past: women with big butts, finely-shaped hips, nice hair, sweet voices you name it, but this one was a true mystery.

Her face fell from sleazy to defensive. "Well actually, I do that part timeI'm a little more into exotic dancing and such. You have a problem with that?" 

"Well of course not, I was just surprised that prostitution was legal around here," Leon said, blinking wildly. _A stripper and hookerlook out Leon Kennedy, your wild side has probably met its match_! His mind flashed. 

"It's been legal for a long time," she said. There was something odd about her personality that Leon couldn't exactly grasp. Her eyes then began to shine. "You know, you would make a very good male prostitute. I mean it."

"Well, I haven't put much thought towards that yet," he chuckled. "Say, you know, I have much wor—"

"I was just kidding about that, you know." She then giggled. "Actually, I meant that you would make a very good _mate_ for a prostitute." She smiled into his eyes. Seductive charm at its works. 

And Leon could almost feel it working into him. And all it took was a large bust.

"Hey Leon!" a deep, familiar voice cut through the mass of noise. 

Leon turned his head. He caught glimpse of a cop dressed in the usual cyan and black R.P.D. uniform that looked exactly like the actor Will Smith. 

"Willie, the Hell you doin here?!" Leon said, surprised to see one of the cops from his days at the Academy.

Willie Burrow was one of Leon's buddies he had met during training at the Academy in California. He was that one enforcer that taught him the _real_ art of firearms. Without the training of that Will Smith look-a-like, Leon couldn't surely say that he could shoot pimentos out of olives from ten meters without the assurance of his Anti-B.S. Guarantee. 

"Was just pulled out from undercover for the NYPD a while ago," he said, his head starting to twist back and forth while smiling. "They just needed me herenever thought I'd see your 10-meter, pimento-poppin ass here either." 

Leon extended a finger at Willie. "That's right, man. I can still do itthanks to your wise-cracking insults." He smiled.

Willie began to chuckle. "Aaah just shut the hell up," he said while his eyes shifted to rest on the woman standing beside Leon. "Nice to know you're making new friends, Leon." He tipped a chin at her. "Hey there's, Trisha." 

Trisha gave him a stiff look. "Hi Will," she said coldly. Her voice seemed a lot more serious to Leon than the last time she had spoken to him minutes ago. It seemed as if she had known Willie for a while and didn't look comfortable around him either. 

"So," Willie said, revealing his extra white teeth, "how's that naughty sex life of yours—or may I ask, how much you _makin_ from that that naughty sex life?" His right palm sailed over towards her buttocks and gave it a gentle _tap._ Leon gawked at how her ass reacted to it—it pretty much jiggled wonderfully.

"That's sexual harassment," Trisha said as her arms folded, causing her breasts to bulge upward while her crossed forearms pressed upon them. She stared up at Willie with stiff eyes that appeared to be as solid as the facets of crystals. 

Willie's tone now sounded seriously interrogative. "You grab hold of my balls everyday, Trisha, it don't matter. Now answer my question."

"How many times do I have to tell you, Will! I work in a stripclub and mak—"

"Not _that_ answer, you know what I mean."

Her eyes shot to Leon, then back to Willie. She shook her head and sighed. "All right, I'm a thief, just one buxom little girl trying to make a living here. Dammit Will, you just ruin everything around here. _Fuck_."

"Now _that_ is what I wanna hear from you!" Willie's hands were now at his hips as he bent down speaking to her. "How dare you try playin my friend off!" He was speaking in his scolding mother tone. Him and Leon used to joke about it back at the Academy.

Leon was surprised he had heard this. "A thief?" he asked Willie. "This bitch makes a living out of pulling dollar bills out of my pants?"

"That's right, my man." Willie gave a proud look. "Who you're dealin with here is Raccoon's loveliest seductress: the pick-pocketing Trisha Lockney." 

Leon shifted his eyes toward Trisha. "You know, I wouldn't mind if you pulled some _shlong_ out of my pants, but my own green bills" he waved an index finger while shaking his head, "that's out of the question lady."

Trisha stared up at Leon sweetly. How innocent. "I like you, though," she said.

Willie stepped forward and grabbed Trisha by the shoulders. "Look," he said while his eyes were locked down into hers. "Just leave this man alone. I know you may not know this, but he's gay. I mean it, girlfriend. This man is one lonely sick bastard." Trisha's eyes bugged out. Damn Willie. "You see, every single day while he's in the bathroom—"

"Willie, quit filling her head with shit," Leon thankfully interrupted for his personal sake. "He's kiddingthis black fellow here's obviously a liar," he said to Trisha while pointing jabs at Willie. That was Will's trademark, to make false assumptions about him day after day. Maybe Leon should try doing the same to Willie. See what it feels like. 

He turned around and grinned at Leon. He laughed. "Go home, Trisha," Willie's tone grew serious again. "We've got much work to do around here. I think the time's right for you to find another playmate worth playin off next timeyou can go have another visit here sometime. But trust me Lockney, I'll be glad to catch you the next time while your hands are full again. And I mean that."

"I'll be more than happy also," Leon added. 

Trisha stared at the both of them with the same, solid unchanging eyes. "Fine," she said while turning around and strolling towards the exit. Within a few steps from the exit, she threw a blind wave at them without looking back. "Nice meeting you assholes, bye." Leon watched as she exited the station, strutting proudly. Her ass seemed to wobble gently with every step, like firm tofu tightly wrapped under a smooth plastic bag. 

Willie glanced at Leon. "Next time you be careful about love around here, there're bout as many ho's and sluts here in Raccoon City as there are in your momma's house." 

"Shhh" Leon held up two fingers to shush Willie. His eyes stared down the exit where Trisha last walked through. He looked at the statue beside it. It stood peacefully at the center of the main hall, the same as before. Leon saw another cop, this time it was a rough, ill-mannered woman who might've taken one too many bullets in her tour of duty. It almost reminded him of those old grumpy Russian ladies. 

She splashed a cup of coffee into the statue's face. 

"Fucking sculpture," Leon heard her mutter. 

_Now, was today the official _Pissed Off at Work Day_, or what?_ Leon thought. 

****

7

The locker room of the police station was about as crowded as the main hall itself. The strange thing about the whole scene as Leon observed was the hurry most of the cops were going through. All of them seemed to have that same quickened haste as if they were firemen reacting to the latest call. Leon shook his head. _His_ day was different.

All he wanted right now was to forget most of his worries and go on with his job.

So far since his first hour or so, it seemed as if every valuable lesson (except shooting) the Academy had ever taught him began to be dubbed as worthy of being tossed out the window. Whatever they had drilled through his head about conduct of civilians (officers alike) and the cop virtue became less worthy to him; even though he didn't view those aspects as important, it still meant plenty enough worthy of wearing the badge. The philosophy Academy trained him to believe slowly diminished from within. He was quickly becoming disenchanted with the very system he was trained to uphold; being revealed of the truth instead of the euphonic reality the Academy brought along, the harsh reality it all sums up into.

And he was being revealed of this harsh reality too fast.

Could it just be with himself that is the small problem now? Or could it be the people of Raccoon? Everyone Leon met so far besides his old friends Kobe and Willie were mysterious, as though they were all connected by some kind of dark secret. 

And what in the hell, if he was sure about it, _was_ this dark secret? 

"So Leon," Willie asked while packing his locker, "how you like it so far in this shithole?" He was talking casually without even looking at him. 

"I can agree to call it a shithole," Leon answered while placing his duffel bag on the bench. "Actually, its becoming more of a real Hellhole already."

"Oh, so Rookie-Cop-of-the-year don't find Raccoon City fit for his job?" Willie was already smiling again. "Looks as if I'm gonna have to _make_ you like your job, Rookie cop, Leon Kennedy." He winked at Leon while slowly licking his lips.

Leon shook his head. "You sick, man. LookI mean, I can't really call this place City of Angels,' but there's something with how the people act here that's a little different from the Academy's teaching."

Willie planted a coat into his locker. "Leo, there are two things your mind has to work on: you refer to Los Angeles as the City of Angels'—there is no other competition with that name. And also, there are _a lot_ of differences between the people in LA and RaccoonRaccoon City just has less freaks and RuPauls struttin around. But believe me man, you'd rather meet the people down here than in LA or even New York." He had his hands up and his eyes were fixated into Leon's like a Chess mentor focused onto the latest underage whiz since Bobby Fischer. He seemed like he had a point about how the people were like. I mean, he has been here since last month, hasn't he? 

"My bad, William," Leon said, his hand digging through the contents of the bag he had used since the days at the Academy. "My bad then, guess you're right about that. Must be my own problem." He sighed as his right hand reached down the bottom and caught Pamela. Yes, his baby Pam. 

Willie's eyes widened. "Holy Mother of God! Leon, what the hell's that?" he asked while Leon pulled out his twin-barreled, home-modified shotgun. 

"This," he said while drawing back the front hammer, causing its sweet, crunchy metallic sound that was always included with every pull of the trigger, "is my baby Pamela." He smiled evilly. 

Pamela was the product of a super-shotgun Leon tried producing since his late teens. He simply fused two 12-gauge, M1100 Remingtons together, somehow molded it so a single trigger from one gun could control both guns, and then attached an extra pump-action handle below both of the original handles to support the reloading of two shells. So, simple to say, whenever he pulled the trigger, whatever he shot at would get two shells for the price of one. 

"I can see why you call this thing Pamela," Willie said after examining the two large black barrels adjacent to one another, "but how did you do this? I mean _shit,_ this is a work of art, Leo. A cosmetician would be proud."

Leon drew out a smile. "Well, took me a while to get them both working fine—but at least it works. Out of the five times I've used it, I could find _nada_ wrong from it."

"So what'd you use it on?" Willie was simply packed with wonder from his eyes.

Leon chuckled, his head pivoting left and right while his fingers went up to scratch the back of his skull. The condensed memory of a deer's innards splashing at his face appeared. He smiled. "Never use that thing for hunting I mean damn, you'll only get back _half_ of what your prey started out once you lay this sucker down."

"I don't think Irons is gonna approve this," Willie said while laughing to Leon's last comment. "But keep those fingers crossed" He was staring down across the surface of the black barrels—his fingers felt around the two slots on the top from where the spent shells were expelled out of. He shook his head and grinned. "Why, now I've _got_ to get myself one of these!" 

Willie Burrow was_ Will Smith,_ Leon thought.

His attention then focused back to Leon. "So how you feelin about meeting big dumb-ass Chief Irons, huh?" he asked, his arms cradling the super-shotgun. 

"I dunno," Leon said as he scratched his head. "What's the fat man like?"

"I've only got one word that describes him—even the whole station agrees with your brotha, and it's D-I-C-K."

"You're saying that he's a bad Chief or what?"

"No, I mean you watch it with this guy—he'll bite your head off. Rookies to this son of a bitch are like toilet paper—he's gonna want your face licking the shit off his ass." Willie then directed his attention upon Leon's Pamela once again. Leon saw his eyes scan the perfect molding of the handle from the top, as it formed a Y in between the two shotguns and the single, manipulating trigger itself. 

"So what should I do?" Leon suddenly had some bad vibes. But he wasn't afraid.

He was Leon Kennedy.

Willie kept his gaze upon Pamela. "Just watch your six, that's all," he said. "Never quite sure when he'll be checkin out that fine ass you got there, Mr. John F. Kennedy Jr."

Leon smiled. "Hey, now don't you be talking bout my ass—it's been there for one purpose: to serve and please my female freaks. One more comment Willie, and I'm gonna have to bust out that can of whoop-ass on your _gettin jiggy wid it_ self of yours." Leon gave out a chuckle. "Next thing you know, you ain't gonna be riding—" 

"Shut your mouth," Willie said harshly. "You know I can beat that white-boy ass of yours any day." He then smirked. "And I'm also the one with the big gun."

Leon threw his hands up. "I rest my case, my brotha." 

8

"Sit down," the harsh voice behind the large tobacco cloud said. 

Leon sat in the chair facing Brian Irons' desk. The blinds behind him were bursting with sunshine. It decorated the room—along with Leon—in black-gold stripes provided from the rays of the hot morning sun. He saw the large-framed Chief of Raccoon City Police seated on the thick, black leather chair with an overstuffed cigar in one hand. Grasped with the other hand was a chewed-up bagel frosted with cigar ash. 

"I can see since this is your first day," he said while placing the bagel onto a marble-colored plate and grabbing a folder, "I'll make it simple for yousince it's a tradition for the Department to provide the most _boring_ job for you Rookies on the first time on duty." He stared at Leon through wire-frame glasses. 

In addition to being a fat, nasty-looking bastard (As Willie might have noted), Irons already seemed to spring true as being the common dick-ass motherfucker to Leon. From the way his eyes fell and rose upon him at the first glance, he could tell in a heartbeat that Irons didn't like him. Leon didn't like him either. 

"I'll be much obliged to do that, Chief," Leon said as he relaxed against the seat being a little too close to Irons' impending cloud made up of smokeand probably gas from his bloated fat ass. 

Irons nodded. "You see Kennedy," he rose to his feet and took slow steps back and forth parallel to the edge of his desk. It reminded Leon of Barney the Dinosaur. "Since you're a Rookie"

And since you can't run the Department well enough, Leon thought.

"you might not know about the fact regarding that recent contamination scare this morning. It's pretty serious."

"I'm aware of that, sir." Leon tried to answer, but his words did not fully sink in. Irons seemed to talk as if nothing in damn the world could interrupt his speech about what happened to Raccoon in the last few hours. Leon was fully aware of it. Although it was clear in his head, he never took any of it personalit just seemed to not have that much of a priority to discuss about before the details pertaining to his so-called duty.

"There are cops in every corner and health department of this fucking city," he said while looking across the room towards a disturbing red and black painting of a girl and a dog in the background. "We're sending all officers to help control the present situation. As you can see so far, there are new recruits called inincluding Rookies pulled from Academy like you and Regs from various precincts of major cities like New York and LAof course, they have arrived a few months back to handle other occasions unlike the one we have now." He blew out a gust of smoke. "It may sound strange, but this_thing_ happens to be more serious than the E. Coli food scare. And we'll be needing an extra hand if it gets any more serious." He drew the back of his hand to wipe his mouth, which Leon could see had a mustache in similar fashion to Saddam Hussein.

Leon laced his hands together and rested them on his stomach. "So what's in stor—"

"As far as problems go" the Chief went on again without interruption.

Leon sighed. _Dammit Irons, when will you get to the fucking point?_ he thought.

"There has been an increase in various homicides in the past few monthssome increasingly grotesque in nature and others crafted by sheer insanity, as some detectives have reported." He was now staring blankly at the floor, his large head bent downward.

Leon lifted an eyebrow. He now had to hear this, even though it had nothing to do with what he was _supposed_ to do, based on Irons' policy on the first day for Rookies. He had to keep his eyes open for any killers in this areahe always wanted to be that good cop bagging in misfits like Charles Manson and Jeffrey Dalmer. 

"There are now riots occurring from across Dark Stalk Ave. and Downtown Ryuken Street, which is around that ARUKAS place, " he continued. "The city at the moment is in a state of chaos that's all I can say. It's a nightmare." His head, miraculously retaining a full head of dark hair, turned to face Leon. "Your assignment's to patrol the Northeast section—just you. I'm not going to provide you a partner or anything, it may be a fairly long drive from here because of the traffic, but it'll be easy—that's the place where nothing's going on at this point."

"Thank you, sir," Leon said bitterly. He wanted some action, but this could settle. 

"Dismissed."

Leon stepped up to his feet and turned towards the door ahead of him. 

"Oh, and one more thing," Irons' sullen voice abruptly appeared from behind. "Kennedy, I'll need you to come here for a second."

Leon turned around again and walked up to the police Chief's desk. He saw the folder Irons had on his desk flatly opened, gaping at him like a dead crocodile. Inside the folder he caught glimpse a picture of a serious-looking woman and on the other side, a blonde-haired maniac of a man. The woman's file beneath the picture read: ANNETTE BIRKIN, while the file of the maniac: WILLIAM BIRKIN. Looked like one happy couple.

"I've heard some stuff about you back at the Academyjust remembered it," Irons said with a contemptuous smile beginning to appear, "heard you were among the best chosen down there. I apologize if I've looked past your so-called wonderful skills."

"No damage taken." Leon said. _A hypocrite, wonderful_, Leon thought. 

"Just remembered about your impressive use of firearms and code of conduct back from your file." Irons' stare never left Leon's eyes as his grubby fingers fondled the cigar. 

Leon knew Irons was just bullshitting so he could make him do even _more_ work. He could smell it all through the man's breath. And that breath smelled like shit along with that. Pure bullshit. So much bullshit Leon could laugh.

"Yeah, I've stirred quite a large audience back there with my olive thing." Leon chuckled blankly. He was responded by silence. The stern face was as stiff as a brick wall.

Irons swallowed, causing a lump to run down his throat. "Since you've stood out among your classmates," he continued without much further ado about _anything _in particular, "I'd like you to do a secondary assignment."

"Much obliged," Leon repeated a portion of his earlier phrase. 

"So at around four or five," he said while shifting his eyes toward the woman's photo on the folder, "I'll want you to go investigate this woman here." He pointed at Annette's photo with the smoldering cigar tip. "Her name's Annette Birkin, wife of well-known scientist William Birkin." 

_Now that scientist shouldn't even be a scientist, _Leon thought. _With eyes like that, looks as though Mr. William Birkin could be the prime candidate for the next Dr. Frankenstein—or even Dr. Moreau. Pay me, and I wouldn't even work with the bastard. _

"Since we haven't any information about her," Irons continued, his voice seemed to roughen up in a harsh, grating manner. It reminded Leon of Dennis Franz from _NYPD Blue_. "I want you to investigate her, ask her questions and such."

"And why am I doing this?" Leon asked. He had no idea about this whole _Secondary Assignment_ thing; it all seemed so vague.

"For one thing, she seems to be an important witness to the source of the various murders recently happening around here. The next thing, her neighbors have recently reported of violent happenings going on in her house—especially last night. We aren't sure what the hell's happened, so I want you to check it out." He placed a cigar in his mouth and blew a cloud of smoke into Leon's face. 

Leon gave a disgusted look and casually fanned the area before his face. "So you want _me_, a Rookie cop on his first day, to talk and interrogate with your most important source to an investigation?" 

"Everybody's just _damn_ busy today, Kennedy. You're up for it. That is" He dove back to his large black seat, hands resting behind his greasy brown hair. "Only if you're _man_ enough to." Irons chuckled—his first sign of real amusement. The way he stressed the word "man" in his sentence seemed to amuse him. 

"Got it," Leon nodded his head. He could handle anything this fat Chief could throw at him—and he was going to handle it well. He'll show what true law enforcement means to this shrine of disdain (which was Irons, nothing was going to disprove Leon of that fact). The rookie with the last name of Kennedy and a middle name of Scott was not only being cocky of what he was going to do—he was being dead sure of it. Bagging the criminals was one thing, showing his boss who he was, was something all too similar. Leon's eyes then rolled down to William's photo. It looked as though it would sneer at him. He tipped his chin toward the gazing mug shot. 

"So what's with the Aryan fellow?" 

The expression on Brian's face lit up as though he was presented with a bright idea.

"William Birkin—_The_ _MeatHook Mangler_. He's our man of the week." Irons leaned over his desk and twisted his cigar (rather painfully) into the marble ashtray beside another dish with the exhausted bagel over it. "Within the last month, this freak of society" Irons shook his head. This wasn't a good thing, obviously. "Five counts of first-degree murder, eight counts of Arson including vandalism of public _and_ private property, numerous charges for illegal eugenic experimentation, terrorism, and most recently" He shook his head again. "Child molestation." 

"What was the child's name?" 

"Sherry," the Chief said, "Sherry Birkin poor daughter of his." Irons then looked up into Leon's eyes. "Our forensics team has tracked this Birkin (William) down—we now basically have this _fucker_ exactly pinpointed. His every move is anticipated. In fact, the FBI has even been involved in this."

"The FBI?" Leon asked with widening eyes and increased interest.

Of course, Iron's didn't hear him. 

"There is a vague theory that he is responsible for the contamination in Raccoon, and we have predicted he is soon to be at the barn 6 miles from outside Raccoon City. He has also been linked to disturbing murders involving meat hooks, so we are all cautious about this nut. So far, we are awaiting his arrival so my men can pound him down." The bottom of his fist went down on the desk hard, causing the bagel on the dish to shift a little. "By the time of the horizon," he continued, "my men will have him before he can begin some new slaughterhouse' with his collection of over-sized fishing hooks." 

"And what about the contamination?" Leon was now feeling hyped for his job.

"What _about_ the contamination? I don't think it's a very big problemyou shouldn't worry about it. It's just another scare." The way Irons tried assuring Leon's safety sounded like how George Bush once tried telling his country to read his lips: no more taxes.'

"But what if it turns out real?"

Irons frowned. Leon seemed to have ticked off something in the Chief's nervous system. "Just shut up and do your job, Kennedy," he muttered in a low guttural slur. 

At the Academy, Leon Scott Kennedy was as widely known for his courteous attitude as for his shooting—the Academy and life itself had taught that. Even if this sadistic, cold slab of a Chief was using him as a stress-relief tool, Leon still knew the single-most important thing he had to do was to maintain respect. He tried squirming himself to sit up straight.

Leon straightened his face and said calmly, "Chief, if I pissed you off in some way—"

Irons stood up, his hands spread out onto the desk. His darkened figure in front of the shades looked imposing as it shadowed over him. He gestured towards Leon with the hand holding the cigar. "Look, what angers me most is your wise-ass, straight-from-Academy attitude, Kennedy. I've already tried being nice but it's no use in trying to shut your stinking mouth from yappin about this shit here and that shit there. When you set foot in my Department you should understand that I don't like cops acting like question-filled fresh Rookies, do _you_ understand me pretty boy?" 

Leon was the bad-ass of all question-filled fresh Rookies, and wasn't going to let no behemoth-sized Chief stop him from doing the job _his_ way. It was Leon's personal style. Respect for higher authority was a priority to him, but in this occasion, it was an exception. He stood up to face the tall burly Chief. 

"Don't you forget that I'm here to do my job and _nothing_ else!" he said in a mad swirl. Leon brought up a crooked finger and leveled it at Irons. "If you don't like the way I handle things around here," he said while his head slowly pivoted from right to left, "then you made a wrong decision in recruiting me, because I came from the higher crop of Academy training!"

"First, you shut up and _sit_ down!" Irons exploded. "And _that's_ an order!"

Leon paused for a while before falling back into his seat, his face giving out an expression of pure rebellion. 

"Don't you forget that _I'm_ the boss here!"

_And also one hell of a screw up,_ Leon poked at Irons with his thoughts. 

"I don't like the idea of pansy-ass, know-it-all cops running my Department!" he said while drawing a stiff finger. "Once you get a taste of this place you _will_ see your flaw, Kennedy, and _will_ grow up without being the natural _shit_ you are now." He planted the butt of the cigar into his dirty mouth. He calmed a little after a large grey fume ignited from his lips. "You know what your problem is, Kennedy?" 

"I know what _your_ problem is," Leon said with glaring eyes. _You're an idiot who can't take care of real problems—just let things slip by while you smoke that damn fucking cigar until your lungs burn out,_ his mind expressed. 

Irons ignored what he had said (also thought) and continued on with the answer. "You're a little worm who refuses to grow—that's what you are, and if you don't straighten that attitude of yours," he paused, fidgeting with his cigar, "you can look forward to many years without promotion." 

Oh, Leon will show this bastard who he really was in this jungle. He was going to be the symbol of law enforcement—unlike the stupid, sloppy officer crap Irons wanted him to be. Sure Leon had a way against strict authority, but this was out of question. To be the best, he had to work his _own _way, regardless of whoever tried slapping him into becoming some fucked up model from their minds. His parents had taught him that long before the Academy or even this misfit had even thought about trying.

"Are you listening to me, Kennedy?" Irons let out another batch of putrid-smelling Surgeon General's Warning fumes into his face. "Or do you have a hearing problem?"

"I'm listening," Leon said, his voice was buried somewhere between anger and frustration. "And I can hear just fine_, sir_." The tone he had used to say "sir" was peppered with sarcasm, as though he had been acknowledging to an evil submarine commander from a Tom Clancy novel. 

"Good, now get the hell out of my face." Irons sneered at him. "Dismissed." 

Leon stood to his feet and made his way towards the door. Once he was almost out, he heard Irons' grating voice again. He could now cringe at that voice. 

"Oh, and one more thing, Kennedy, I want you in uniform tomorrow, do you understand?" His eyes were fastened on Leon's dark blue outfit, which were customized with armor plates on the shoulders, torso, and upper arms. "I don't need costumed misfits like you running the show around this city."

Leon turned his head 90 degrees. "Fine," he mumbled while exiting the Chief's office and making his way through the crowded investigation rooms. He was going to wear this limited-edition enforcement uniform for the next couple weeks. He smiled. _Yeah, that'll make his blood pressure rise_, Leon thought, _piss him off some more._

He noticed the ceiling fan above him spinning frantically like a helicopter's blades. Its sound was brought down to a muted silence from all the chatter and chaos happening around him. A young woman hugging a stack of paperwork ran into Leon, causing the sheets to splash all over him in a large cascade. It fluttered onto the floor like snow. 

"Whoa, my bad there," Leon said, his courtesy working back into him. "Sorry about that, Miss, let me pick that up for you." 

The woman was on the floor before she struggled to her feet in stuttering movements. She stood by him panting as if she had just ran a marathon. "No, that's okay—_Shoot!_ I have to go, just forget about it." She then cut through the crowds of officers and ran to the next room leaving the papers right beside him. 

He paused, watching her disappear within the bluish fog of fellow officers and detectives. Leon shook his head. "When you gotta go, you gotta go," he said, remembering a line from _Jurassic Park_. He glanced at the stack of papers lying dead beside his feet. 

They were nothing but white fliers probably advertising something. He crouched down low and picked up a sheet into his own hands while reading it. "Well I'll be damned," he said with some amusement. The large print read:

****

Umbrella Corp. Welcomes You To The Opening of A New Lab! 

Come To Washington Hospital And Receive Free Beverages 

Including Our Elusive Umbrella Cola! 

The strangest thing about the flier was that it had already happened. It went on during April 28, while it is now already the third week of May for Leon. He shook his head again, shaking away the potential thoughts about another mystery. "Forget it, man," he said to himself, "you're worrying too much about nonsense, that's all." He tossed aside the printed sheet. It weakly floated in the air, spinning like the fan above him before sliding across the floor towards its comrades lying face-down beside the file cabinets. 

"You've got more important things to do than try to figure out why such an old flier was carried by a woman looking like a secretary," he said to himself again, while tapping his temple with a finger. He then said, "That's it. She just happened to throw away some old papers, that's all." Leon's head was going in circles. The longer he seemed to have spent at Raccoon City, the more strange revelations he began to unravel. 

He stood up, noticing more papers strewn about all over the floor in the room. Whatever that was going on in the station was _a lot_ more serious than Leon thought it was. It looked like a clearance store in a mall with cops instead of products on sale and eager buyers. He made his way through the doorway and out towards the main entrance. 

9

Willie howled with laughter. His head was pulled back, laughing at the blue sky above the crowded, noisy landscape. "The fucker told you to patrol the Northeast Section?!"

"Yep, that's right," Leon said grimly. "I've never been up there—what's it like?" Leon was curious, since Willie's reaction seemed to point out that his first day was simply a joke—and not a job at all. Rookie or not, Leon shouldn't be taken as a joke. Seriously.

"I'll let you find out yourself." Willie patted his shining gold badge. "Cop's honor." He laughed again. 

"An honor my ass," Leon said, "you know I hate surprises, Will, just tell me."

"Cop's honor," he repeated.

"Fine," Leon said while taking steps down toward his car. Willie followed behind him. He now felt like changing the subject—everything the both of them had been talking about revolved around Rookie Leon's first day and police work surrounding it. It already began to annoy him like some stupid commercial appearing after every break. So he turned his head and decided to know more about Willie himself. "How's the fast life right now, Will Smith?" he asked with a smile. 

He looked down at him with a raised eyebrow. "What you tryin to say?" 

"I mean family lifeor I mean _your_ life. Anything good or bad happen ever since teaching at the Academy?" 

Willie's face suddenly shined out contentedly. He sure had something going on.

"What, Will Burrow, tell your man Leo something for a change!" Leon smiled. There _was_ something new in his good friend's life. Something, just something.

"I'll tell you once we get to your car," he said while grinning. "I forgot to tell you this earlier, so don't you get pissed."

They made their way down the numerous steps leading toward Leon's new Chevy _Caprice_ parked within the sea of cops and meandering people. The sky was blue and the sun stretched out bright through Raccoon's sky. So far, it seemed a nice day. The inhabitants of this industrial, but pleasantly populated city knew a fear was among their hearts, but they dismissed it as unreal and even as a joke. They had no idea what the city was transforming into. Something terrible and horrifyingly ravenous was sitting in the city's dark corner in secret, silently emerging with its large, menacing wet fangs. 

Only God knew what was about to happen to Raccoon City.

"So, what were you trying to tell me," Leon said as his jagged car key crunched its way into the circular-rimmed slot on the car door. 

Willie shook his head with a smile. "I swear, once I started having unprotected sex with that one fine girl I now call my fiancee," he smirked, "I knew that deep in my heart, I was shaking hands with the devil." 

Leon paused. He knew better that Willie hadn't contracted STDs or anything horrible by that fact—he had a smile on his face for God's sake! So it only drew to one conclusion Leon could sniff out. Willie was having a baby. He knew it all along. 

Willie was going to be a father. 

"You tellin me dat mah fellow brotha heya is gonna be a fatha?" Leon said, trying to sound like a Southern Baptist Pastor. "Holy shit! Congratulations, Willie, it's great to know that you finally have balls that work."

He briefly paused with a grin and laughed. "Shut up, White Rookie boy."

"So how's fine Lorraine feeling, now that she's ready to bust out a new Will Smith clone." Leon was simply awestricken. Willie, a father? He was only 27, and it all seemed so soon for him. Surely, for a kid with Leon's features to come out crying and begging for milk—that would have to wait a while. 

"My baby's fine in both meanings," he said proudly. "Lorraine's supposed to be due out in the next two monthswe're planning to have it out at Washington Hospital."

Leon had only seen Lorraine once, and that was long ago at a party held at Willie's house. Like Willie, she also bore some resemblance to a celebrity, but instead of looking like an actress, the package came in to look like the model Tyra Banks. He always won-dered how those people ever got to be looking like the rich and famous—it almost made him feel jealous. But Leon would never be overly angered of his friend for something pointless like that—he was already grateful that he was cool with someone like Willie. 

And also because girls had said he sort of looked like a blonde Tom Cruise. 

Leon opened his car door and leaned over the roof towards his soon-to-be-a-father friend on the opposite side. "Really," he said with a serious tone, "It's _real_ great to know that. Man, Leo-Daddy's real proud of you, can't wait to meet your newborn."

He gave Leon a heartwarming smile from the sunshine enveloping the both of them. For a second, he nearly looked like Denzel Washington. "Thanks, you been a true friend for a long time yourself. Hey, I thank you for all of it, really."

"Ah, no need to get sentimental," Leon said while dipping his head into the car and closing the door. A metallic slap echoed from the _Caprice's_ side, reverberating off the buildings as it dove into the crowds of people running through the streets. "Just be cool with the fact that I'll always be there to help you, that's all." 

"Me too, White boy." He came up to Leon's window and held out a hand.

Leon slapped Willie's palm, clasping it, and watched his white skin against his friend's darker skin.

"Good luck on that first day," Willie said as he drew his hand back "An watch for them ho's—they bite."

"You too," Leon replied, smiling as he twisted the ignition key, hearing the rumble of the engine. "Late, my dark-skinned brotha." He tilted a chin at his buddy while backing away and sped off toward the homely Northeast section (As Willie and Irons suggested). 

His radio scratched to life a few minutes later. 

The voice behind the speakers sounded harsh but understandable. "HQ, this is 0214. I'm here checking over an assault of a young white male around Megafire complexes. I could be needing some backup, over." 

He smiled and shook his head, laughing to himself. Oops, poor Nazi boy.

Leon accelerated his police car towards the freeway entrance. Actually, he felt a little bad about that one kid, but then again, he also felt good. He was going to be doing police work, no matter how boring it was. He let out a satisfying grin. 

It was _Leon Kennedy's first day on the job_. 


	4. Part I : Raccoon City (10-20)

Part I 

Part I : Raccoon City

10__

2:00 P.M., Northern Section, Raccoon City—Downtown Ryuken Street

A light haze looms over the maze-like terrain of Raccoon City's buildings, housing projects, and various small shops across Ryuken Street. The translucent brown mass hovered indefinitely, fogging the sky like a dense, dirt-laden pollution. The sun was now very hot, searing the 25 mile radius of Raccoon City and baking its land like the daytime Nevada heat at its all-time high. Weather like that was not usual for a budding city from the state of Oregon—it was the kind of weather that drew daily reports of potential heat waves and other paranoid bits of information. Meteorologists predicted "one skin bakin,' smog congested Summer," while scientists formed an hypothesis linked to the effects of greenhouse gases and the Greenhouse Effect accompanying it. Yet even though the height of knowledge did a wonderful job of informing the public using its fancy schematics and advanced predictions (since news and media is a great part of their job), nobody came to think that any of it was nothing but euphony. 

Like what the menacing voice that terrorized Claire Redfield said earlier that day, today _was_ a special day for Raccoon City (No cops, no securitynothing to get into your way). The Greenhouse Effect and the "one skin bakin', smog congested Summer" were mere euphemisms for the _real_ cause of the ninety degree heat wave: city-wide chaos.

"At this present time, the situation involving the chemical contamination within Raccoon is under process of immediate control," the image of an urgent Brian Irons reported over a Sony Trinitron television on display behind the glass window of Yuki's Electronic Boutique (I beat your low prices better than your average wife-beater!). "In the meantime, we are investigating the plausible causes associated with the known suspect of the recent contaminationany further notice surrounding the case will soon be provided to ensure public safety in Raccoon City."

Right before KEVL news anchorman Ben Bertolucci could step into the TV and question the Chief of Raccoon City Police, the shadow of a crowbar cuts across the Sony's monitor, and the glass window of Yuki's Electronic Boutique suddenly finds itself glistening over the concrete sidewalk and various appliances around the store. The noises of gunshots, police sirens, muffled screeches of tires, and screams of hundreds rush into Yuki's shop and bring the loud volume of the television down to a whisper. 

Rows of R.P.D. officers dispatched by the station spill their cars into the street and open fire on the looters and crazed rioters once emerged from their battered vehicles. The commotion continues when some of the rioters return fire to the police and brush holes across some of their cars, leaving the windshields with enough cracks and holes that it comes to resemble an uneven fishnet with holes melted through it. A nervous policeman firing away from behind his opened car door has his chest impaled by three bullets from an unknown shooter in the crowd. Before falling away on his back towards his death, he reaches out with his .38 revolver and blows a nearby gunner's head away. The gunner from the rioter crowd stumbles back and tips over toward the asphalt, where he receives two more bullets to his dead body: one on his left thigh and the other right into his navel. The war continues for a long period of time until both sides are unsure why they began firing at each other in the first place. Moments later the police continue forth and try to maintain "control" by means of drawing away the urban swarm in an almost recognizable fashion reminiscent from the racist South of the early 60s. They are simply following orders, as they say in between their hostile brutality.

"—Officers from various precincts all around the city, along with a few specially hired from selected precincts across the nation, have been dispatched to handle our current crisis." The uninterrupted voice of Irons continues to speak amongst the violence—nobody seems to be listening as the newscast continues, for they all seem preoccupied with their own matters. 

"And what are your feelings regarding the contamination?" the rather cool, but aristocratic voice of Ben Bertolucci asks the burly figure standing beside him. 

"In regards to the chemical contamination, if the crisis advances to yet another level beyond critical controlthen immediate quarantine of Raccoon City will be an imminent factor—if so this decision be taken into action, _nobody_ in Raccoon City will be permitted departure or even entrance within a safe distance of city limits."

Right before Irons could finish or possibly explain more, his image blips off into mute blackness as somebody unplugs the Sony television and carries it off toward Down-town Ryuken Street through the heavy crowds. 

The wise owner of the expensive tailor across from the corner of Yuki's now battered electronics store was wise enough to close his lovely shop before this incident and to also be fortunate enough to be on vacation. Below the stone surface wall where the ARUKAS sign and canvas entrance peak lies suspended from (YOURS TRULY is printed over it in bold white letters), there is the large vacant shadow of the building outlined with brass-colored diamond patterns from the metallic security gate. If a curious onlooker was behind that cage of a gate protecting the ARUKAS store, he or she would have seen the rows of cars crunched into one another like some sort of hellish nightmare train dreamt by a twelve-year-old. The dazzled eye would then make out the large over-emphasized curving sign of Yuki's Electronic Boutique behind the crushed sedans and two-doors across the street before noticing dark trails of smoke rubbing its way up into the fading atmosphere. Perhaps the last and most terrifying detail the interested observer may attempt to see happening on Downtown Ryuken Street is what some of the people in the street were doing to themselves.

A great number of them—an increasing number—were biting each other. 

And nobody could figure out why.

11__

2:05 P.M., Central Section, Raccoon City—15 miles South of Downtown Ryuken Street 

Nancy Garcia brought her gold-colored, Lexus _LS400 _to a stop at the Washington Hospital Visitor Parking. Her eyes brushed the entrance of the building. There were guards everywhere—even policemen. Yet she also wondered why there were so many of them sent to protect a hospital like Washington. It looked as if it didn't need human guards—more like a retributive computer system was the real security.

Above its main sign housing the heart symbol with its large cross implanted in between where the two bumps on top of the shape were, stood an enormous piece of modern construction from where Nancy's eyes rose. She noticed the sleek architecture the simple square-based structure had. It looked more like a lab than a hospital itself. She sighed to herself while leaving her car, shaking her head lightly. 

"If the mayor has enough funding for a building like this, then _shit_, they should start paying me more," Nancy muttered to herself as she made her way toward the Lobby entrance. A loud, deafening siren across the street from behind caught her attention. She turned her head and saw three ambulance cars—one after another—shrieking its way through rows of swerving cars before stopping behind the hospital where she assumed was ER since that was the place where everything went on. Supposedly so.

She shrugged to herself and continued, her finely-shaped hand (as described from many of her peers) ran up to her sunglasses and slowly peeled them off, revealing her sharp, brown eyes. The sliding door leading to the Lobby was darkly tinted, giving Nancy hardly any visibility to see what she expected behind those two doors. In her mind she could see the volunteers—at least two, maybe up to three of them seated calmly behind that large desk bending across the back of the lobby like a fortress. She could see their eyes full of a future and ambition on college life. She knew everything about how the vol-unteering system worked, even though she had never been a volunteer herself. 

Although Ian—her nephew—had been one prior to his disappearance. 

She remembered the look from his mother, Ely, when she ran up to her, sobbing painfully into her shoulder and yelping the same phrase in Spanish: "_Mi hijo esta perdido!_ _Busca mi hijo, Por favor Nancy, Busca mi hijo._" 

Ely believed her son was missing—kidnapped in fact by _them_, the nameless force. She was one of those superstitious women who always drew her conclusions toward the supernatural or any of that crap already proven incorrect through modern-day common sense. Nancy wouldn't be surprised if her sister Ely had believed the _Chupacabra_ had taken him, rather than something more credible. 

"Ely, don't worry about _what_ kidnapped to our poor Ian," she tried assuring her in fluid Spanish. Her plump face was still buried onto the surface of Nancy's shoulder. "We'll find him, _somebody_ will find him soon, I promise."

Ely would never be convinced of Nancy's words until she had seen some kind of ghost or beast to accompany the evidence that Ian was _there_, and breathing in front of her. Nancy was sure of it, she knew her sister for so long it hurt her in the back side of her head. 

Yet, it was a good try.

Her sobbing ceased a little, persisting into quiet sniffs until they ended in silent tears drenching Nancy's shoulder-blade. She then spoke in clear, flawless English. "All right sister, you go find him. He's strong—I know he is—just please bring him home." 

"I will, Ely. I'll try my best." Nancy hugged her sister tight and gave her a warm peck on the spot above her ear. She smiled warmly. Her sister found the right person.

Ely had come to her since she worked for the FBI. She was undercover.

From the way she saw it, it almost seemed to her that Ian was merely a child from how Ely seemed to speak and brag about, but he wasn't. He was 19, fully responsible, and had a bright future—yet he mysteriously disappeared. Ely had thought at first that spirits had kidnapped him to repay for her wrong-doings of the past, but she knew better. As far as Nancy could tell from her recent investigation, it had something to do with the city and the hospital he had last volunteered in himself. 

And what seemed to revolve around Raccoon City and the hospital was, strangely enough, Umbrella Corporation—the soda company, or whatever they said they were. 

Although she wasn't allowed to head out and investigate personal matters invol-ving family, the promise she had given her sister was true and had enough life to be deemed worthy of a promise. Her current investigation involving the biological terrorist (William Birkin, or _The MeatHook Mangler_ they called him) was linked to her search for Ian (and probably the others vanished with him), and was led into _this building_ she was now entering. What frightened her the most was the fact that Ian's disappearance proved to be a lot more serious then she had expected—and that is what scared her the most about it.

She wasn't sure if she could keep her promise for long. 

The Bureau had already provided much support and background evidence for the sloppy R.P.D., which have done nothing but confuse and blur the investigation on William Birkin. The Chief have already told the Bureau (bragged actually) about their recent advancements on the Birkin case and how by around late-afternoon they would have him in "no time." The possibility of the Department's success at Birkin had some clarity, but Nancy herself didn't believe they had any sense whatsoever. Brian Irons and his motley crew of investigators were full of bullshit, and she knew it well enough. The Justice System itself was even aware of it. 

In case Irons was _really_ full of it, the Bureau had sent out five undercover agents throughout Raccoon City to do "a more thorough investigation." Nancy was one of them, and her partner Marcel were to be stationed at Washington Hospital in case anything out of the ordinary showed up there.

And already, they were told that _something_ was going on there. 

The first set of double doors quietly slid open as she strolled through the entrance of the hospital. Through the second set, she could see the large desk sitting right before her in the lobby. _The information desk,_ she thought to herself. 

After the second door closed behind her, she continued toward the bulging desk where the volunteers were seated calmly. She saw only two. 

The two volunteers seated before her looked to be of Asian descent. They wore burgundy polo shirts and had a brownish complexion as if they had tanned the week before. One of them, seated to her left and facing her was a weary but bright-looking boy with a shaved head around the same age as Ian. Seated to his left was a younger girl with long, brown-dyed hair extending down her back of about sixteen. The girl's lips and other facial features were filled with make-up, probably making her very attractive towards the males in her age group. Nancy didn't necessarily need make-up to look beautiful herself, she looked good enough without such tricks of the face. But anyway, she looked _irresistible_ with make-up on.

The boy with the shaved head looked up at her and gave her a welcoming smile. Nancy noticed the boy had a rather muscular build as she saw his bulging arms spring into action. She smiled back politely. _At least there's some decency around here_, she thought. 

"Hey," the boy said to her. She noticed the girl right next to him try to say something but clenched her mouth shut. "Anything you need help in?" the young man continued. 

"Yeah," Nancy replied, noticing both volunteers' name tags. The boy was named Nathan Lieu, while the girl's name tag said in capital letters: SOFIA DELACRUZ. Her attention focused back onto Nathan. "I'd like to know where Mercedes Gamboa is." 

Nathan looked up at her questionably with a confused expression. "Uh, can you spell out the last name."

"Yeah, it's G-A-M—"

"Thank you," Sofia's soft voice replied. They both suddenly started typing in their computers. The girl seemed to have brought out the last name faster than Nathan as she came up with Nancy's answer before he did. "Yeah, Mercedes Gamboa," she continued while her eyes were locked on the screen, "she's on 3 West, Room 17."

Nancy heard Nathan mutter out something that sounded like _"Oh, you good,"_ but she wasn't sure. Seemed to have been some kind of friendly race of some sort. She smiled. "Thank you _very_ much," she nodded at Nathan and Sofia before turning to head towards the elevators to her left. 

Her eyes then abruptly swept toward the large sculpture hanging on the wall behind the volunteers. It was a large heart—the outline being the exact symbol of Washington Hospital. Inside the large cross placed in the heart frame was a staff and serpent slithering over it like a vine. She noticed that the staff belonged to an ancient Greek deity of the name Aesculapius, the god of healing. Interesting. Surrounding the staff and cross were nameless objects of little meaning to Nancy as she then drew her mind away and back onto the hospital. She had one more thing to do. 

She reached into her black leather coat and gripped a yellow folder as she turned around and headed back towards the desk. She would have to lie in order to do this—obviously a central part of her job; it was the only aspect that made her cover a lot less conspicuous.

The boy named Nathan looked up at her again, so did his pretty partner.

"Um, I know this may be a little too much coming from a stranger and all, butI was wondering if the two of you can do a little favor for me," Nancy crafted the phrase in her nice, but quirky voice. 

The boy gave a pleasant expression with his face (she saw it as either a smile or a cute smirk)it almost made Nancy feel special for some strange reason, nearly giving the awkward impression she was talking to her new dream lover or some other type of uplifting persona. She smiled back without being hesitant. 

"Yeah, I'd be more than happy to do that," he said as he began giving her more of that same expression, "as long as you're not telling me do to something like walk your dog' or change your kid's diapers,' I'm your servant, lady. That's what I volunteer for, to bring out the limited slave outta me." Nathan grinned. "So what you want?"

An almost breathless chuckle came out of Nancy's reaction—surely Nathan seemed as welcoming as his first smile to her, and to put it simply, she saw him as not too bad of a volunteer. That just made things better. 

"Well," Nancy smiled, "I just need the both of you to hold on to this folder for me, it just has some important stuff for Anna Brown. I'll need for her to pick it up later."

"Oh, okay, justleave it here, I'm pretty cool with that," Nathan said. 

"What department is she from?" Sofia asked. She seemed to have some suspicion about the Anna Brown Nancy conjured from the back of her head. 

"Oh, Admitting," Nancy replied. The most favorite aspect of this part to her undercover operation was the fact that she could make up almost anything the young volunteers could believe or casually not care about. They were simply kids, and Nancy did not worry so much as she would if adults were the prime obstacle in her path toward finding Birkinor Ian. 

A puzzled look appeared on Sofia as her face looked as though it had picked up some bad smell from the toilet. "That's kinda weird, I never remembered hearing about an Anna Brown," she then looked at Nancy. And then she shook her head with her eyes closed. "Ah forget it—I don't care, they don't pay me for this shitty job anyway."

Nancy smiled again. It was the blissful smile she gave to her ex-boyfriend on the day he tried proposing to her. "Oh well, then. Just leave this in some drawer and she'll pick it up later this afternoon—will any of you be here after that?"

Nathan rested his hands behind the back of his head. "Yeah," he said calmly. "Because of the emergency today, they're making us stay for a whole extra four shifts—that's the whole friggin dayand I got no clue why. At least they're doubling our hours for today—which then means I'm gonna have enough hours to graduate, finally." 

"And I'll have enough to get out of this shithole and get a real job," Sofia added to Nathan's comment. "Almost got killed this morning by some psycho." 

_Dammit_, Nancy thought. She should of just said her partner Marcel was going to pick it up, since that was the truth. His cover was a hospital security guard. How could she be so stupid by making up some crap like that? But anyway, Marcel would just come at around eight, and by that time, the volunteers wouldn't even be curious enough to look at all—just worried about going home. So it was nothing to worry about after all. She almost felt like cursing the hospital itself for making them (as Nathan said) stay a whole day in a place that could be so dangerous at this time. It just wasn't right for two kids like the ones here to be so unaware about the potential appearance of a biological terrorist/ serial killer in this hospital. 

And what was the deal about Sofia saying she "almost got killed this morning by some psycho?" Did Raccoon City have more problems that the Bureau must have overlooked? They shouldn't have, because if they did, then that would have to be one big shit-load of a problem to miss. The Feds themselves would surely want to shut themselves down if they looked at this place and saw only William Birkin but missed a whole shebang of an apocalypse coming instead (not like it was predicted, but it's something stirring in the mind at the moment). That was just funny to think aboutthat since Birkin and Umbrella have some faint connection to one another, a kind of a hellish, book of the dead-type fate could come up here in Raccoon City. A soda company and a biological terrorist. Pretty laughable stuff. 

And here I am undercover with a folder to deliverthinking this thought. 

"So, you going to hand in that folder?" Nathan said. It abruptly interrupted the string of thoughts going on in Nancy's head. 

"Oh, surethanks a lot for it," Nancy replied happily. 

She handed the yellow folder to him.

For a brief nanosecond, it seemed as if her Glock .40 strapped to the left side of her body would actually fall out and her cover would be blown. But as always, thank Godit didn't. She should invest in a new holster once she had the time. 

She then smiled again, as always, and began to walk away towards the elevators to the volunteers' right. 

Nathan glanced at the yellow folder the fine woman had given him. He then looked up at the Jennifer Lopez look-a-like. She was about 5'7" with her heels on (or flats, what-ever), but Nathan knew by expert estimation she was an exact 5'5" without them on. So that ranks the Jennifer Lopez woman to be the 150th passing customer to be taller than the 5'3" Nathan Lieu (and that included the 6'2" Crewcut). He smiled nervously and stared at the folder before leaping his eyes onto her again. 

"Hey, we'll promise not to look at it," he said with that warm volunteer tone. 

She turned around, and with that pleasant smile she kept giving him and Sofia, she replied, "You better, because if I ever catch you two, it's going to be another long shift for the both of you!" She then disappeared into the elevator area. 

Sofia didn't leave her eyes from her. "You know," she said as she began to roll closer to Nathan with the comfortable office chairs they had, "don't you think that she was really pretty?"

"Yeah (Of course), I think she's decent-looking," Nathan agreed without drawing his eyes away from the folder in his hands. 

"Decent-looking? Is that all you can say she is? Come on, Nate, you don't have to lie to me about this—admit it, she's like _hella_ fine, ain't she?" 

Nathan smiled a little and looked at Sofia. Was she jealous? Nah, couldn't beNate himself liked everybody, and Sofi here was probably the type that could get any guy if she just about gave them _the look_. Beauty wasn't necessarily skin-deep for Nathan—every girl to him was fine in one way or another (Although occasionally there are some exceptions to that). 

But every girl was pretty much nothing compared to Fiorella Lai—but that was another tale saved for another day. 

"All right, she's fine, she's _hella_ fine, Sofi," Nathan said while he placed the folder on the Lobby Desk where Crewcut last stepped over while trying to demonstrate his hate for Asians in Raccoon City. "I just gotta say, she looks like Jennifer Lopez." 

Sofia nodded with a smirk. It made her look cute, and at the same time, nearly beautiful. "Yeah, she does. Jennifer Lopez, that one chick from _Out of Sight_. I loved that movie." She looked at the folder on the desk. "You ever wonder what's in that folder?"

Nathan shrugged. "I don't know, I wouldn't look at it—it's probably full of boring stuff for whoever it was forthat Anna Brawn, Brownor whatever." 

"Well, I'm just bored—I should've been home right now or at the mall with my boyfriend now that school's out for a while." She then paused, and suddenly grit her teeth. "But it was hella fucked up what just happened to us this morning, Nateand they're still keeping us here!"

"Hey, just calm down," Nathan tried reassuring her. In a matter of hours following their recent episode with Mr. Crewcut, Sofia began losing her calm he last saw her in the morning with. It almost looked as though she had a severe case of PMS once she downed that nut-case with the switchblade. This was definitely not the same Sofia Nathan had known, but just what seemed like an aggressive side. 

Sofia blew a sigh from her (rather pleasant) mouth. Her cheeks and lips puffed up a little from the way she let the air exiting her mouth fill up inside her jaws. Then her eyes widened to the point that it seemed to say, _Damn it, Nate! Don't you have any fucking clue? I'm having a baby right now and the contractions are killing me! Don't just sit there and gawk at my pretty face! Do something!_

But of course, babies were very far from the situation the two of them were in. 

Instead she said, "Calm down, Nate? They have us fucking trapped in this hospital while the city's going insane with riots here and riots there'—and if that wasn't all, there's a contamination people say could spread all over across Raccoon—I heard that in the Surgery Lounge—and it's got people rushing to _this_ hospital, Nate! To _you_ and _me_, and at the same time, they're keeping us in here for crying out loud! They're just fucking _keeping_ us here for no reason"

"SofiSofia, one thing here: can you please cut out fuckings' and we've been through this already. We're going to be fine," Nathan tried calming his nearly hysterical partner. This was the second time. "Just take a _deeeep _breath," his eyes widened as his voice grew incredibly soothing. The shrinks would most likely laugh at him. "Calm down Sofia, _calm_ downyou see me going around screaming like that psycho with the crew-cut did in the morning?"

She shook her head after taking the deep breaths he told her to. "_No, Nate,_" she whispered in her dulcet voice as her eyes began to close. 

"We just have another six hours—that's a school day right there—but the best part is we'll get double hoursthen you can get out of this shithole and go work at Burger Kong or some other, better place."

"I hate Burger Kong," she began to smile with what looked like a highly sarcastic one. Her voice now seemed a little more on the borderline of tranquilized. She then sighed again—this time it looked more like her usual self that Nathan had barely known for around two weeks. "I'm also beginning to hate this place. I mean _really _hate it." 

Nathan wasn't surprised from that reaction. For a rather fine and rebellious girl like Sofia, doing a job where her parents forced her into (as what she had told him) and not liking a single bit of it did not necessarily bring happy results from this _bonita_ Pinay. Even though Nathan's parents (actually mom) _somewhat_ forced him to come work here since the end of his Sophomore year—like most things, he began to enjoy it to some extent. He actually liked discharging patients out the hospital; riding them in wheelchairs through the slim corridors where all the rooms originated from and eventually watching them leave into their rides with smiles of satisfaction all over their faces. Today, he and Sofia had discharged at least forty people ranging from old ladies with bad cases of arthritis to hulking men who could actually walk by themselves despite their serious injury. Nathan remembered an occasion where a man just told him, "I can handle it from here," briskly got out of his chair, and walked off to his car. From the looks of it, the man had just finished surgery in the liver or some serious treatment. So volunteering wasn't such a bad idea, although it did have the college-bound, success freak in mind, it was simply volunteering—probably something to impress over after all. 

Which was until Nathan heard of the disappearances. Then there was Ian. 

Volunteering at Washington Hospital for over a year and a half in the 6:30 till 8:00 PM weekend shift, Nathan had come across other volunteers who had either quit soon (like Sofia in the next week, most likely), graduated if they were seniors (something Nathan himself was going to do), continued until they simply became old and frail (while wearing that 10000 hours pin), or, just recently, disappeared without a trace.

Nathan had known Ian Garcia for a while after the disappearances began—he was a good volunteer, probably better than Nathan ever really needed or wanted to be. In fact, Ian was his partner before the replacement by the name of Sofia came in two weeks ago. He was a cool type of person—always with a sense of humor along with a sort of hip personality that seemed to spring him to life. Whenever he and Nathan would read the magazines saved for the patients, he'd always point out the funny or kinky sex-oriented articles from magazines such as _Cosmopolitan _or _People_. Nate himself simply checked out the pictures (and also the fine women). Since the end of the school year was coming up for the both of them, they were ready to graduate—and talk about what to do following that _glorious_ day. Ian had seemed so enthusiastic on what he planned to do on graduation night: get drunk, fuck some cheerleaders, and go home smelling like the old cognac. But sadly, like most tragic cases, he may never will. And that was most likely. 

Because he simply disappeared without a trace, like the two other volunteers.

Since Ian had also volunteered under Critical Care with the addition of doing the Lobby Desk with Nathan on his side, Nathan was a little suspicious of the hospital not knowing his whereabouts. He had disappeared while he was in his Critical Care shift. The investigators believed he had disappeared outside, in the parking lot of the hospital instead of _inside_ Washington itself. But Nathan believed—in his heart, and simply his gut instincts, that he was taken by something associated with this hospital. 

And _that_ was what made him (along with others) extra worried of volunteering in this place after the disappearances began—it just became too frightening of who could be next. The first disappearance involved a rather tall girl (to Nathan's standards) named Cindy Flynn, who was reported by the proper officials to be "strolling across the hospital parking lot before her disappearance." The R.P.D. eventually found her body in the forest just outside Raccoon City days later, mutilated—with her arms, left leg, and lower jaw torn off. Her eyes, as detectives described, were "wide and full of the most terror they have ever seen." Two months later, there was the similar disappearance involving a Junior of Portland's University of Concordia by the name of Gene Woo. He was also abducted in a parking lot—except this time it was around the outskirts of the hospital. His last shift involved the weekday PM Lobby Desk shift. The body was never found. 

Every disappearance (including Ian's) so far has involved a parking lot. 

Now there was Ian—nearly a month later; his disappearance being as mysterious as the last two. Since Ian's abduction, Irons, the Chief of the R.P.D., announced to the public about the importance of personal safety in Raccoon City along with all that other crap people saw as worthless in the search for Gene and Ian. In truth, it seemed Irons was too wrapped up in his own murder and multiple homicide cases to even give a shit about what was happening to the hospital's volunteers. Besides, the crime rate in Raccoon has doubled since the last two years and Washington was the only hospital in Raccoon City—the residents had no choice but to hope things would improve around both the city itself and its now notorious health center. 

So it _did _make some sense for Sofia to say she really hated this place. It was getting worse every week. The increase in complaints and lawsuits against the Washington Service League piling up from the parents of the vanished and deceased was enough to overwhelm even the mayor himself. And just about inching its head toward Nathan with every impending day, was the fact that he was beginning to believe that Washington Hospital itself is behind all the kidnappings. He had been questioned for Ian and his family's predicament last week, but as Nathan tried his best, there was nothing he could do to helpall he could simply say was that Ian was a good partner.

And suspect Washington—or some other force affiliated—was behind it all.

Sofia sniffed and brought her hands into her black bag. Who knows what else could be hidden in that bag of tricks she just used to conjure the Mace and the tazer. Although instead of a weapon, as Nathan had thought she might pull out next, there came out instead the worst-tasting can of shit Nathan had ever known.

"So, you hate this place also?" Sofia asked as she opened the silver can of Umbrella Cola. The cylindrical container looked like some kind of generic drink sold from those underground fleamarket-type bazaars.

Nathan pretty much ignored the question. "You actually _like_ that stuff?"

Sofia sipped the condemned beverage and nodded. "Hell yeah, Nate—there a problem? Shit's the best I ever tasted since Pepsi_damn_, the new Blue Coke's nothing compared to this." She took another sip; this time it looked more like a gulp. Nathan felt like he was going to puke. 

"I have to warn you, Sofia: Umbrella Soda may be pretty new, but I swear to your beauty that _that_crap is the nastiest thing you can drink. I mean, Cho Cho Cola is hella better than that. And I even hate Cho Cho Cola!"

She blinked in a manner that seemed like she was fluttering her eyelids. She then smiled a little—more like a smirk. "Nate" She giggled. "You're starting to piss me offjust stop it. It tastes like Jamba Juice! Come on, it's not _that_ bad!"

Nathan shook his head. "All right Sofi, obey your thirstI tried that shit once already—and it was _horrible_."

He saw her shake her head with a smile as she held the silver-white can. The octagonal red and white logo of Umbrella right beside the curved lettering of _Umbrella Cola_ ran across its length. It was such a rip-off of Coke and Pepsi.

"Any-ways," Sofia continued with her pleasant voice, probably hoping to change the subject, "now that I feel more relaxed, and you're just a little uptight nowdid you hear about Umbrella opening one of their labs here?"

"Yeah, I knew about that. I don't get why all a sudden a soda company starts opening a lab under a hospital. The most whacked out dealI don't get it." 

Sofia shrugged. "They probably don't have enough room in Raccoon to make up a new one, I guess."

Nathan shook his head. It just couldn't happen. "Nah, that can't be. Our city is surrounded by forests and plains—they would've had plenty of land."

"Ah, but Umbrella's environmentalist," Sofia's eyes seemed to glisten. "Since they're already here, Nate, expect more of _this_." She shook her can at Nathan while grinning sweetly. "I think they'll start giving away some to people who work here, including volunteers." 

Nathan fell back in his chair and let his neck go limp until he was staring at the ceiling. "Oh shit, _damn_ am I thrilled!"

12

She knew it had to happen sometime. 

The monotonous drone of the motor on Claire's bike slowly waned from a continuous thudding to an echoing sputter. Her speed on the Harley fell as the sound of her powerful motor did the same. In minutes, she suddenly found her bike unable to go any further in the hot desert highway spanning towards eternity.

_"Dammit,"_ she said to herself as she tried stomping the starter in hopes her bike had yet _some_ life left in it. All she got in response was the same guttural sputter.

Claire gave out a grunt and then looked up at the road ahead of her. There were absolutely no cars or other vehicles in sight; the sun was literally lighting her up, and she was surrounded by desert plains.

And she was going to be late. 

She took out her silver canteen once she had taken off her black, sweat-drenched helmet and drank all that was left of the water she brought. While strapping her canteen back onto her motorcycle, she came to realize that she had at least a hundred or maybe two hundred miles left before finally making it to Raccoon City—that was around one or two hours on the road if she overdid the speed a bit, and she'd be able to make it before dark.

Only if she had some gas. 

She remembered her tank being full before she had left; full after she was forced to refill her tank after it had unexpectedly ran dry the first time—she was actually _positive_ without a doubt that it was _totally, extraordinarilyfucking full to the shitload! How could it be? Just how?! Definitely her mind was in the right place. Unless_

Someone was trying to set her up. She sighed. It had to be. 

Claire rested her head against the right clutch of her Harley. She felt the soft, light- brown hair of her long sideburns rubbing against her right arm as she closed her eyes. At this rate, she would never avenge the death of her friends; her family, and therefore she'd be stuck in the Circle for as long as her body would allow. Sometimes all she wanted was to die, to die the shameful way, instead of spending another minute with what owned her now. Sometimes she felt like killing herself. 

Yet, like some elixir of life, while she had these thoughts, everything would then be just right again once she thought about Chris, her family, her dead friends, Teresa, andthat one hit man

Ethan Combs.

Then she'd feel welcome into this world again, like what she felt like now.

Claire walked her bike off the road and into the gravel-filled dirt. She smiled as she saw the blue sign that said, **Call Box**, over it in bold white letters. Sitting upon the sign, the solar panel with the fuzzy antenna mounted on the top shimmered from the afternoon light. It seemed to smile at her. 

She walked up to the yellow, oval-shaped box and grabbed the phone within it. Claire then reached into her daisy duke-length shorts (or course, there was the black spandex partially running down her thigh, she was no hooker) and pulled out some change before dropping them into the phone's money slot. She was going to call Ethan. 

Combs was the only person she could trust—and at the same time—was the only person she knew (or was comfortable with) that was also in the Circle. In the exception of being a hit man for Bartowen, Ethan was, pretty much so far in Claire's short life, the sweetest guy she had ever come to know. It was clearly a shame she had forgotten to talk to him in the morning—his pleasantly soothing voice would have been a lot better than any type of caffeine or anti-depressant for the life she was living in now. So it was confident to say she was already in love with him—and he was madly head-over-heels for her in return. But what seemed to bother her most about Ethan was the fact he worked for Bartowen—he was part of the same army of hit men who dressed in black, carried those pistols in their sleeves, spoke in raspy whispers to their clients, and, worst of all, perfor-med much of the same deeds that had taken Teresa and her family's life. 

But Claire, now cursed in her own life, wouldn't have been able to make it this far without him—as of now, her image of him seemed to mean more to her than Chris ever had in her lifetime (which also meant he was losing his importance to her), but really, that never meant she wouldn't care about her beloved brother anymore. To place it in simpler terms, Ethan was simply the best thing that had ever happened since her entry into the Circle. Without him, she was alone; alone since Chris had left her in the dark. 

She now missed him. Him just being there with her seemed to be enough, even though Claire wasn't at the stage yet to actually _die_ for Ethanhe was still something that meant more to her than most things in her life. Nights with him were bandages for her tortured soul. She never felt any better and more comfortable whenever he came over and expressed his concerns—Ethan always seemed to have come to her at the right timeshe was a friend as he was someone to be comfortable spending time with. And it was bliss for her to lean on him—usually she had on panties and a T-shirt, and occasionally a silk night-gown. It was nice doing that; as nice as he was. He would comfort Claire, stroking her soft, shoulder-length hair while she'd sometimes close her eyes and rub her head against his shoulder. And she didn't mind being intimate with him—it was natural. There were times when they kissed; she'd pretty much kiss him everywhere as he embraced her, sometimes he slid his hands over her ass and down her thigh while she leaned her head against his, panting wildly like some porn star. 

And whenever they had sex, they didn't necessarily _have sex_they made love. Nights with Ethan were unforgettable, mostly because he was the first one. She didn't feel any shame or sign of nervousness to go with her times with him; she opened herself to this dream lover, and he was one of the very few people in her life where she truly opened herself to. Unlike some women being stripped of their virginity, Claire's deflowering nearly came as smooth and gratifying as her first Moto Cross Championship trophy. Her clothes slid off first; then his, her bra; his boxers, and her underwear. She remembered the almost heavy sigh she gave as he filled his hands with her soft breasts while feeling her nipples harden between his fingers. She kissed him deeply, letting her tongue wet its way all over his and never forgot the one phrase he said that changed her outlook of him forever: _"I love you, Claire, wherever you areI'll be there and on your side at all times."_ He slowly slid himself into her at that moment—almost as if being careful not to hurt her—and they both let out breathless moans as they rode with each other till they touched the sunrise. Yet Claire wasn't necessarily some nasty vixen, she was as decent and cute-looking as any 5'7" female; there were less intimate times than there were serious times for her. She was pretty much a normal person in her early twenties.

Claire dialed the number for Ethan's cell phone he only used to talk to her with. While hearing the internal ring from the receiver, she began to think of him again. 

In a _very_ vague way, in a reason probably because she had loved her brother so much (and it was not _that_ way), along with him being so caring for her, she sort of saw a little of Chris in Ethan. Not that she was now attracted to her brother or anything, it just seemed a bit symbolic to her.

One of the reasons why Ethan had cared for her so much was the fact that Bartowen had forcefully recruited her as a part of the painful Circle. It was almost similar to rape. He had no part in the death of Teresa's family, and since meeting Claire, he had always wanted out from the immense empire of Bartowen's Circle. 

"You know Claire," he said to her, "since you know I'm a hit man and all—to tell you the truth, I grow pretty fucking tired of the job pretty quick."

Claire looked up at him with shiny eyes. "You don't need to work for Bartowen, Ethan, he's giving you more pain than you can already handle yourself."

He sighed. "You're right, Claire—I don't need no fucking fat-ass pushing me aroundI need you." He held her hand. At first, his callused fingers were cold against Claire's palm, but eventually she felt it getting warmer. "You know, the first time I met you" he began to smile, nearly seeming to show he was blushing. "Actually, a while before I met you, I kinda had some feelings against the Circle and what they made me do to people like you. I had some thoughts of packing up and leaving—but you can't do that if you're with Bartowendeath is the only exit out of the Circle—and death of a loved one is a way into the Circle, that is, only if you're acceptedyou know that Claire." 

She closed her eyes for a brief second before opening them again. Teresa and the family quickly rushed its way through her enclosed eyelids. She began to give a little squeeze to Ethan's hands. "Yeah, I know."

Claire suddenly felt Ethan's already warm palm gently feel her cheek. She brought her hands to them as she closed her eyes again. She almost felt a tear squeezing its way out of her eye. He was opening old wounds again. 

"I hadn't thought much of leavinguntil I met you and learned what they had done to Teresaand your Moto Cross team and all."

"So you really want to leave, is that what you're telling me Ethan?"

He nodded. "Actually, I was planning to run with you out of the Circle and into a safer place where they can't find us, while helping you avenge them by dealing with Bartowen himself. But mostly, I was also thinking of helping you see your brother again since you missed him so much."

Claire smiled. This time, she was the one blushing. "Ethan, that's real sweet"

He smiled at her. The smile he gave her looked painful, seemingly reflecting the body count inflicted by his hands. "I'm doing this because I love you, and I'm also thinking about this because they not only hurt me real bad, but they have brought pain to you also."

"But Ethan, you don't really have to do thisI don't want you to get hurt over someone like me."

"Claire, you're worth everything in this world to me, _nobody_—not even Barto-wen—is going to keep me away from you. Just promise to me then Claire, that we'll be able to do this someday—not now, but we _will_." While he was talking, his gaze onto her made her feel more involved with what he was saying.

She sighed. "Okay, I promise."

Now that Claire came to think of it, as she was dialing the lover she knew as Ethan, she decided that she _would_ die for him. She really loved him, and nearly forgot about it within all that was happening to her today. She heard somebody pick up the phone. 

"Hello?" a familiar voice answered. 

"Ethan, it's me." 

"Uh, which one are you, the blonde one, or the brunette chick?" he asked. Claire's heartbeat rose a little when she heard this.

"Uh, the one that's ready to kick your ass, Ethan," Claire said, smiling.

She heard a chuckle through the receiver. "Just playin with you baby, what's up?"

She let out some air. "Some shit, honey. I think one of them set me up. I'm out of gas and stranded at a highwayI need to get to Raccoon City before duskbefore, you know what, happens."

A faint rumble came out of the phone and into Claire's ears. It sounded as if he shot out of his chair. "What? They sent you out to Raccoon in a condition like—"

His voice was cut off by a loud _click!_

Claire strained her ears against the phone. "Hello?" she asked frantically, "Ethan, you there? Ethan?!" All she heard was silence. 

"Nice to talk to you again, Redfield," the voice shattering the deadness of the line rasped through Claire's ear, like small claws squirming to scratch whatever organ they could find inside her skull. 

She began giving out breaths of anger. _You,_ she thought.

"What's wrong, rather speak to Mr. Combs than one of his humble partners in crime?" the voice whispered. It chuckled.

"I'm out of gas—again," Claire replied coldly without thinking of the question. 

He breathed into his mic, causing her to hear that loud, grainy noise that sounded like the wind blowing through a narrow opening. _"You think I give a shit, Claire? You think Bartowen gives A FUCK?!"_

She grit her teeth together, grinding whatever small thing was between them. "Without any gas, I won't be able to get to Raccoon City—and your job won't be done."

Silence. Then what sounded like a breathy hiss. 

"This is a matter of trust, Redfield, it's a test from the Circle itself—you fall short because of gasyour head's mine, milady."

"So where should I meet you?" 

"Don't worry about that—we'll find youand I recommend you to handle this smoothlyThe Master is coming to town." 

Claire's eyes lit up. "Bartowen? He's coming?" Somehow, the thought of Bartowen actually appearing at Raccoon City was as frightening as it was wonderful. 

"Tonight's a special night, Claire—I've told you that already—so unlike most of the shit you've done for ustry making this one a lot more meaningful than the rest of your fucking attempts you pink crop of bitch shit." Unlike what the voice was like before, it sounded like it lost control over its anger. That was to be taken into advantage. 

Claire lifted an eyebrow. "Why? Cause you think I can actually pull out this job of yoursafter _you_ set me up, you bastard?!" Like last time, she was talking in a manner that was liable to get her killed again. 

The voice behind the miles of phone line between them began breathing rapidly, as if in rage to whatever pissed it off. "You watch your back, Claire," the voice said in its true voice for the first time; the man's real tone sounded harsh and deep, probably revealing to Claire that it was a lot larger to her than simply a whisper.

Click! She then placed the phone back into the yellow box. 

Claire smiled as the sun scorched her lightly tanned skin. The sweat all over her body made her look like one of those models from the exercise machine commercials. For some strange reason she almost felt like advertising one of those products. She laughed. Certainly, she was going insane, but she was happy.

Because she felt like the end was near. Some endeither hers, or Bartowen's.

Although Claire didn't smile for long. She saw an ebony object floating in the sky, and it grew in size until Claire could identify what it was. A crow, a rather large one. 

She stared at it as it landed about two feet away from herand onto one of the clutches on her Harley. It was literally drenched in blood.

All over the crow's beak, tail feathers, and splotched all over its breast and belly, were the large dark-red spots where the blood must have splattered upon. Nibbles of white flesh—or whatever it was—was sandwiched between the bird's beak.

It cawed, rising its gaping mouth at Claire. It stared at her with its shiny, beady eyes.

She shivered and kept her distance from it—it seemed to have the ferocity to peck her to death if she approached anywhere near it. She turned and headed down the road. 

She had to find some gasquick. 

The crow cawed again, its sound carried through the air by echo. 

Claire had sworn she heard several other caws in the distance.

13__

2:31 P.M., Umbrella Laboratory, Washington Hospital—500 feet below the surface.

Carl Tudor was a scientist for Umbrella Corp; he was a special scientist. He wasn't anybody's hand-picked lab rat—he was a professional man. A very professional man with an ambition. Just recently, his close associations with fellow colleague Kyle Somers granted him a new position toward the experiments. Ah, delicate fuel for his burning ambition. He was going to be Chief Coordinator for development of the new G-Virus. Yes, the real money was soon to come. When Tudor first heard of the proposal, he not only grew excitedhe was, beyond a doubt, thrilled to the point of feeling shocked. 

"Chief Coordinator?" His eyes widened before his reflection in the mirror. He turned around and faced Somers from across the bathroom. The tall, blonde scientist was turned away from him, standing in the distance while he urinated in his bowel. 

"Carlthat is _exactly_ what I articulated," Somers said calmly. He seemed to be unaffected from the _rolling_ splashes his urination brought out. "And if you want that put into other words, Carl, it simply means I want you to take my position."

Tudor kept his stare at him until his colleague's discharge ended. He was content with the sudden switch, but at the meantime, he was worried over Somers and his present situation in the labs. "But Somers, that's your position over the experiments"

Somers zipped up his pants and turned around. "_Kyle_, Mr. Tudor, please call me _Kyle _from now on, you got that?" 

He nodded. "Will you be resigning?" Tudor asked.

Kyle brought his hands into the basin and the faucet switched on. The hot water streaming from the faucet's tip draped his hands as it quickly slid through his fingers. The steam rushing from the sink rose upward and into Kyle's face. The steam enveloped it like a pair of hands brought up to a blooming gesture. His gaze did not meet Tudor's. Instead, his eyes were directed at anywhere _but_ Tudor. 

"No," Kyle said, "I will not be resigning. I'll be" He took his dribbling hands from the sink and tore out a towel from the dispenser. He then turned around and stared right into Tudor's eyes. Those eyes, according to Tudor's memories of that very day, were the most frightening eyes he had ever seen. They were maliciousspiteful, and as if to top that, they brought steady pricks up his spine whenever his mind recalled it. 

"I'll be making sure Umbrella will pay for what they've done," Kyle finished. 

Tudor continued to keep his eye on him for the moments following that erratic comment. From whatever Kyle seemed to say, he sounded like he was joking with Tudor—merely toying with his emotions, but the case was a lot more serious. _A lot_ more. 

He watched as Kyle strolled out the bathroom, leaving Tudor alone in the fluorescent light while he cherished his new placement for the experiment. He shrugged. 

Whatever that was bothering Kyle was something Tudor had no part of. All Carl could think about was successsuccess and money. Success for being able to embellish the new muta-genic toxin. Money for what the success brought. He'd finally bring home the finance he dreamt about daily! The vacation he planned over weekly! The prostitutes he fantasized about hourly! Oh, and it was such a nice thing, being held up in a prestigious position. Carl was a scientist all right; he was a professional man all right, and by next month, he was going to be a rich man for sure!

But Carl Tudor couldn't enjoy any of that. Yes, it was true, he couldn't. In fact, he couldn't even enjoy the feeling of life at all. And the reason came to one thing

Carl Tudor was dead. He was murdered at approximately 7:30 A.M. 

The blood smeared from one side of the lab to the opposite corner still had its warmth fresh from the homicide of the morning. The blood was shed by a hooka very large hook—a meat hook. 

The MeatHook Mangler was here. The murderer whom the society of Raccoon identified as William Birkin left his mark on Umbrella. And this particular mark was red. Spread across the floor, the red droplets trickling from the remains of Carl Tudor's legs made brisk contact with the metallic floor of Lab B4-12. His limbs, like big branches stripped from a tree, were mounted on a large meat hook. The hook was barbed at the end—it made them look like enormous fishing hooks. Tendrils of sinew bloomed from where Tudor's legs were split from his body. The silver hook coiling through his legs suspended itself from the ceiling. They were burrowed into the area of his anus, while making their way out through the spot of his groin—the pronged end protruded from the area where his penis laid. The legs drifted in midair, swinging to-and-fro in small arcs. They continued to move in that same manner. 

Upon seeing the remains of Tudor dangling from the lab's ceiling, the frightened observer of the crime scene would then wonder where the rest of his body was. The answer simply lies on the severed torso from across the room. 

A trail of intestines were stretched forth from where Tudor's body was torn off. The large mess made it all look like a jellyfish from how the organs were strewn about. They extended themselves six feet down the lab's floor. Their slimy texture reflected the fluorescent lights above. They were splayed everywherelike the blood. 

Splattered blood remained on the wall, as if an artist went overboard with the bucket of red paint. Thin entrails winded down across the cold surface, drenching and coloring everything with a darkening red. Dark clots similar to the kinds following a nosebleed slithered from Tudor's nostrils and ears. His still eyes were emotionless, cold, and brought out the essence of death. The saliva oozing from his gaping mouth slowly formed a shiny puddle from where his tongue lay rested on the table top. Below his left hand, under his open palms, a file stood flat beneath Tudor's drenched palm. It read:

****

Confidential: Raccoon City Experiment, Code Name: CONTAGION.

CLASSIFIED_****_

Umbrella Corp., Raccoon City Experimentation. Source #3415AG.

The Orders of Contagion

1st Order of Contagion:Establishment of microbe/toxin within city limits.

__

Objective1**:** Study of effect on inhabitants within allotted given ranges for the G-Virus. The effects of the T-Virus will be studied as well. 

Objective2**:** Produce key carriers.

Method1**:** Disperse Umbrella Brand Air FreshenerÒ to homes in Eastern, Northern, and Northeast Sections of Raccoon City through a free door-to-door delivery. Canisters will function normally for approximately 48 hours before releasing toxin. Contents include: T-Virus Type-44 and Type-11H. Various strains G-Virus LI-89 and BR-46 in other containers are included as well. 

Method2**: **Offer selected beverage drinks of Umbrella ColaÒ at staged Grand Opening of Umbrella Laboratory in Washington Hospital. Microbe will be engineered to activate within host after a 24-hour dormant period. Once entering the body, the virus will only be transmitted via blood/saliva. The effectiveness of this particular transmission will be studied. Comparisons will be made between the results of the airborne and liquid forms. Any weakness in the weapon's performance will be administered for later enhancements. Contents of beverage drink contain the same as the air canisters.

Details**:** The T-Virus was originally conceived as a demobilizing weapon used to neutralize enemy forces. Although in recent discoveries, the end result has altered the substance into becoming a deadly weapon capable of mass bodily harm. In the first stages of infection, the virus inside the host immediately takes control, gradually assimilating various parts of the body. During its early stages, the T-Virus appears relatively harmless to the host, at worse developing symptoms identical to the flu such as a fever, apparent weakness, or cough, etc. After following a number of hours on to a number of days, the severe conditions begin appearing. Skin rashes develop over all areas of the body, beginning with a mild, red rash that soon deteriorates tissue all over the body. Soon, the victim's skin disappears, revealing strands of muscle tissue and other components of the body. At the moment of extreme tissue loss, the most terrifying qualities of the T-Virus immediately emerge. The virus begins invading the nervous system, devouring any memory the victim has had while changing the behavior and eating habits of the host. This ultimately causes a shutdown of control over the nervous system. In moments, the victim loses feeling and at the same time, motor skills are effected. By this stage of development, the carrier begins metabolizing at an alarming rate while in desperate need for a diet that is preferable to raw flesh. Studies have shown that the victims suddenly "became ravenous cannibals tearing and devouring off of each other." These set of symptoms increase in scale until the host is reduced to a state of "zombification." Through the efforts of the T-Virus, the nervous system is lost, enabling no pain to be felt from the victim while in the state of becoming a "zombie." A number of the test subjects from our labs have shown to withstand at the most twelve shots with a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver before being denounced as dead. Dr. Wyatt recently reported in his notes from the '97 subject experimentation that the effects of the T-Virus on human as well as other animals presented "a direct link between life and death, therefore bringing up the possibility of a living dead.'" In earlier findings based on research from the Mansion in the Raccoon City forest, Dr. Faust wrote in his journal:

"Simple to say, in humans—people as I attempt to include, the T-Virus transforms normal individuals into walking corpses thirsting for the blood of others. Their bites inflicted on victims will transmit a mutated form of the pathogen that is basically the same virus with an increased development rate. This will mean the new host, once bitten, will immediately enter its zombified state within a matter of 2 hours without treatment—five times the rate of development when compared to being transmitted in other methods. This observation has led to my heightened fear of the T-Virus. And in animals, the results are nearly similar, except that they become more terrifying, I will add. Animals become far more dangerous than their human counterparts; dogs will undergo a certain aggression similar to rabies and attack anyone within their range. Some species of birds including crows, ravens, and sparrows have also been observed to display these similar forms of behavior. And while being a scientist responsible for such studies, I am becoming increasingly afraid of the horrors we are creating. I am now very_ afraid." _

**2nd Order of Contagion: **Observe effectiveness of key carriers from the resulting establishment of the muta-genic pathogen.

__

Objective1**:** Allow the T-Virus to destroy city. Influence of G-Virus shall follow.

Objective2**:** Study the spread of virus through contact from host to new host.

Method**:** Contain the citizens of Raccoon City under all circumstances. No member of the city population shall escape the city following the immediate quarantine. In the meantime, entering Raccoon City will be prohibited from all ends of the city. From this point on, Raccoon City will be considered an official biohazard zone. Persons forcing themselves into city limits cannot escape. ****

3rd Order of Contagion: Study the destructive capabilities of specimens created by the G-Virus.

__

Objective1**:** Observe the damage created from the specimens of the G-Virus.

Details**:** When Dr. William Birkin discovered the possibility of a toxin housing deadlier effects than the Tyrant Strains of the T-Virus, the result became the newly-formed G-Virus. The G-Virus was ultimately produced as an upgrade to the Tyrant Strain within the T-Virus. The virus creates the ultimate living weapon out of its hosts. From developments of claws from average ligaments, to grotesque transformations too intricate to detail, the G-Virus has become a monumental leap for Umbrella's overall progress. Various specimens have been created from the G-Virus, including specimens A34-8.5, B45-B714, and P-346—rooted from the Umbrella-manufactured Folitana plant. Even certain forms of enlarged animals ranging from the tarantula spider to the larvae of flies were created using the G-Virus. With its destructive potential, the capabilities of the G-Virus is a true aspect of fear. Recorded from the journal of Dr. William Birkin, he states as follows:

"I am thoroughly impressed with the results my new creation has brought along. Finally, I have succeeded in my attempts toward a weapon that strives more in trying to rewrite the host's DNA. Although doing so has greatly disturbed me somewhat, since the capabilities of my creation have far surpassed my overall expectations. The G-Virus can be rooted to form so many more different strains, along with that, more powerful creatures out of a living man. Besides focusing on the deterioration of the body' aspect the T-Virus was based around, I concentrated on trying to produce a muta-genic toxin capable of producing a biological weapon that was to surpass certain specimen models of the T-Virus. (The Hunter,' I believe, had a flawed design because of its lack of ability to scale walls like the newer models of G-Virus specimens that are capable of) In doing so, my efforts have succeeded into producing deadlier organisms. Through future enhancements, I hope Umbrella will truly benefit from my findings."

****

4th Order of Contagion: Introduce Tyrant Strains for mass termination of surviving organisms. 

__

Objective1**:** Using the Tyrant Strains, eliminate all surviving specimens in the city. Study the rate of death among the area.

Objective2**:** Observe the effectiveness of G-Type specimen, Tyrant-103.'

Details**: **(incomplete) 

The first three orders began appearing within Raccoon City the previous monththe fourth order was to follow next. But somehow, it didn't happen. 

Nobody knew why, not even the Umbrella officials based in Europe knew what exactly went on below Washington Hospital that morning. Whatever it came out to be resulted in both Tudor's and the experiment's death. But the slashed legs belonging to Carl continues to sway as if unaffected by the awareness of the situation.

The grotesque corpse whom the MeatHook Mangler managed to rip apart stood on the table, lying still as it always been since 7:30 in the morning. Reflected over the open eyes of the body, a blinking image silently projects itself to flash during momentary intervals. The message on the monitor lights up the pale face of Carl for a brief second before disappearingand reappearing once more. The message is very urgent. Too bad, for all of Umbrella's personnel sealed 500 feet below Washington's grounds were killed—by way of unnatural causes. Some shared a fate similar to Carl Tudor's—either shredded to pieces, hung up from the ceiling on a meat hook, or simply lacerated to the point of no return. A great number of others became the living dead, slowly lurching around and skulking the dank halls around Labs in the West Area and Security Rooms. All of them shared a fact, and that fact was what they did not know about the message on the screen blinking over Tudor's face, it read:

****

WARNING, BIOHAZARD DETECTED. 

FUSION REACTOR HAS BEEN ACTIVATED. AUTOMATIC SELF-DESTRUCT SEQUENCE SET. ANY FURTHER BREACHES IN SECURITY WILL RESULT IN COUNTDOWN. WARNING, BIOHAZARD DETECTED WITHIN LABORATORY FACILITY

14

Nathan held his breath among the distant chatter of the airport. His sweating palms dampened the plastic bag he was holding, causing it to make that _squishing_ sound whenever he squeezed at it. He looked up at the mounted monitors and saw Flight 47—its initial departure being from Melbourne, Australia. Nathan smiled and shook himself to keep him from being any more nervous. He then let out a deep sigh. 

_I'm gonna meet her,_ he thought, _I'm actually gonna meet her._

The screeches from the runway brought his attention to the panoramic windows. A dozen of the planes sat outside, housed and ready to unload their cargo. Nathan knew for sure that one of those planes was prepared to unload one _nice_ piece of cargo. 

A Boeing 747 brought its enormous nose toward the terminal's windows. Its aluminum alloyed face nearly filled up the window. The dark slit leading into the plane's flight deck silently gazed down at Nathan. He took a deep breath. 

Nathan Lieu was here to meet Fiorella Lai. 

According to Nathan's heart, there was absolutely nobody else in the world more special to him than Fiorella. This girl had his heart. Nights were spent thinking over her lovelinessalong with how he could hold and caress that loveliness. Thoughts, even plans were made to devise new ways for him to express his love. Either way, he loved herthe fact was simple. He loved her simply because she loved him—he didn't care whether or not she was thrilling to every male's hormonally-charged fantasy, he only cared about trying to make her the happiest person. That's all he wanted. 

_"Flight 47—from Melbourne to San Francisco—will be offloading soon at Gate 12,"_ the feminine voice announced over the ambience of the airport. 

Nathan briskly stepped toward the gate and waited for the oncoming passengers. His eyes widened while his pulse increased when he saw the uniformed women hoisting open the doors leading into the tube-like port attached to the 747. A group of women standing beside Nathan leapt up in excitement. One of them nearly fell over his small frame and almost caused him to tip over. 

"Stacy, you whore, grab the cameras, _quick!_ He's coming!"

"Hold on to your fat-ass, Peg, I'm _workin_ on it!"

Nathan shook his head and squeezed his way toward the other side of the entrance.

Once he placed himself at a corner that gave him a greater view of the whole area, he already saw the passengers entering the terminal. 

The gate abruptly lit up as the constant _click-click-click_ of the cameras and their flashes illuminated the people pouring forth from the entrance. The audience of family members, friends, distant lovers much like him, and bands of eccentric people displayed flurries of emotion towards the offloading passengers. One aging woman was crying, bawling helplessly over a man's shoulder while he tapped her back. The man kept on saying, "I know, I'm here, and there is no need for you to be afraid anymore." 

The same group of women that nearly made Nathan fall over grew hysterical while a man of about forty stepped from the gate. One of the them, an overweight, mean-looking woman who seemed to have more of a home at _Jerry Springer,_ cried out in screeching words yelling, "My God, Tommy! Come over _here!_ I've been waiting my whole life for you!_ I love youuuuuu, Tommeeeee!_"

The man by the name of Tommy simply turned around, took a furtive glance at her, and continued to walk off without responding to her displayed affection. Nathan could hear the women behind him screaming as they burst their way through the crowd of people to chase him. He laughed to himself. 

"I'm lucky I'm not that guy," he said to himself, smiling. He then looked at the gate. 

Three women left the entrance. All three of them were beautiful. But the third one was the loveliest in the trio. His eyes focused on them.

The first one had a face similar to that of a supermodel genetically engineered to grace the cover of _Victoria's Secret_. While her brown hair brushed and swayed with every step, her seducing eyes turned to slide past Nathan's glance. He saw her tongue slowly curl back to lick her lips. As her tongue slithered back into her mouth, Nathan saw that her head was tilted high up as if she were some aristocrat entering a world she was too rich and good for. 

Stuck-up snob, Nathan thought. He then directed his attention to the other lady. 

The second woman had the looks and body of a tropical princess straight from the heart of the islands. Her eyes shimmered from the brown complexion of her tanned face. Blond streaks ran through the fine texture of her shoulder-length hair. Her hair rested over the straps to her grey, low-cut tank top. And from under that tank top revealing her midriff, her large breasts nodded and bounced with Nathan's frozen gaze. The small bumps her nipples made in the shirt stuck out, probably being deadly enough to poke out Nathan's eyes if he stared for too long. He felt like whistling at that exotic beauty passing him, but he didn't. And the reason for that was followed behind her.

The third one immediately caught his attention afterwards. This one stared at him and smiled. She was walking through the threshold _towards_ him. Her fine hair, barely able to scratch the peak of her shoulders, moved in the same way the first woman did. This woman looked two years older than Nathan. Her pretty face kept her calm as she walked up to him. Nathan smiled at her and began to bring himself to move down to where she was appearing from. Nathan slowly shook his head before the beautiful thing before him, smiling in a manner that looked as if he were to shed tears of joy. She looked into his eyes and smiled as well. Her smile was bright, lighting up her face as if it were a glamour shot, rather than her real face. 

When they drew closer, trying to keep their faces still as if they didn't know each other, Nathan noticed her other aspects. Her height matched his—being 5'3"—her hips were smooth, curving under the light-blue flares she had on. The tight jeans clung to her figure, showing their shape into his bright eyes. Nathan noticed the white tank top she wore. It wasn't like the one the exotic second woman wore—this one looked to be more from a place like _Bebe_, rather than an athletics store. The thin straps of her tank top looped over her shoulders, and Nathan could notice the thin strap of her bra poking from under those shoulder straps of her shirt. Nathan sighed one of those wondrous sighs that meant nothing else but a good thing. He looked into her eyes and stared into them, hoping in some way she can absorb all of his affection from that stare. The cute eyesthe cute, bright eyes that looked just like his shone back at him. He felt himself melting before her; his body was growing warm while it began to ache with that greatness called love. 

Fiorella Lai giggled as she spread her arms around him. When he wrapped his arms around her, feeling the cushion of her warmth against him, his head dipped to the side and rubbed against her neck. Even though he wasn't looking at her face, he knew for sure she was smiling. Those teeth behind her sweet lips were lighthouses for his lost soul.

Nathan's hands felt around her soft back. The light bump from the placement of her bra touched his hand from under the shirt. Her auburn, streaked hair fell over the rough surface of his bald head. He let out a breath that warmed the smoothness in her skin. The creamy arms holding his neck felt like the texture of silk. The certain texture of silk he could feel and caress for endless hoursand even days to go along with that.

She brought herself back from his embrace. She had her arms rested around his neck again. The light-brown pigment of her eyes looked into Nathan's. The features defining her pretty face moved to bring out another heartwarming smile. 

"I missed you," she said in her breathy Australian accent. 

Nathan felt heat rushing up his face as he smiled. "Yea," he chuckled, "I did too."

Fiorella kept her smile on him. "You know, since the first day I met you online," she said into his face while accenting each line with her lovely accent. "There was this one thing I always dreamt about doing once I actually met you and you know what that was?"

Nathan shook his head. "Nah, I don't know, what is it?" 

She suddenly pulled his head in and kissed him. Yes, she kissed him. And this one kiss—Nathan's deepest, juiciest, and most memorable kiss, was happening that very moment. Her lips massaged his own as she brought herself closer into his arms, letting him sink into the pool of warmth her body provided. Her tongue reached into his mouth and scooped up his tongue, gripping and hugging it within its velvety grasp. Her saliva drenched the surface of his mouth, tasting sweet while it trickled away in steady raindrops. The kiss then ended. She brought her head back to face him again while gasping over him from a slightly parted mouth. 

"I love you," Nathan said tenderly, "and I want to continue loving you for as long as my life can go on." His fingers came up and felt the side of her cheek. "I don't care what happens to you, Fiorella, you can grow old, fat, ugly—I don't give a shit. What I care about is that bright, shining part of you that cares for me like nobody else canthat loves me, and andwill always be happy."

She breathed out from her clenched jaws, smiling through them. Her face grew pink from her blushing.

Nathan held her shoulders and looked at her in a way he wasn't able to look at _anyone_ that very same way—it being the brightest, happiest look that actually made him look pretty attractive from his own perspective. "And I'll never give up loving you, Fiorella. To some people, you may not be the finest eye-candy a guy has ever tasted using his eyes, but _damn_ you'll always be the most beautiful thing in my own eyes, either young or old."

Fiorella giggled, her light voice rippling. "Stop it, Nate," she smiled, "you're being too mushy. I could melt up and get all nasty around you—I don't think you'd want that to happen now, don't you?" She raised her eyebrows.

Nathan pulled back his lips, grinning at her. "Oh Hell _yeah_ do I want that to happen, baby." He gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze.

"Nate?"

His head tilted a bit. "Yes, my Outback beauty?"

She giggled. "There's—"

"—Nate, Wake up!" 

Nathan brought his eyes up and looked at Sofia sitting in front of him. 

"Nate!" She brought her arms up over her. "You okay? Anything I can provide?"

_Yeah, you can start by shutting up,_ Nathan muttered in his mind. He shook his head. _Nah, I take that back, I'm the one who should be straightening out herejust sitting here thinking about the past is not exactly the best thing for the mind. Yeah, it isn't. Because the past can hurt, and it affects your future_

"Anyways," Sofia said as she spun around to face him again. Her long hair swirled with her body and twirled around her neck. So soft, that hair was. She crossed her legs and sat before him with her hands placed over them. She looked like a model ready to be interviewed for her first shoot in the Bahamas. A curious smile lit up her dark face. "So Nate, what's that picture you got there?"

Nathan looked down at his wallet. He was staring at Fiorella's school ID photo, staring at it for at least several minutes. "Oh," he chuckled, "I was just checking out some old love, that's all."

The eyes shining from Sofia's complexion widened in interest. "Oh _really_," she said in one of those impressed tones. "Nate here had a lover!" She placed a flat hand over her mouth and pointed at him. "Pimp shit, pimp shit!" Sofia called out. She brought her head back and giggled. 

"Yeah, you know," Nathan said coolly while smiling to himself.

"Can I see her picture?" Sofia asked as she rolled closer to him.

"Sure." Nathan handed her his wallet. He noticed the fragrant smell coming from Sofia as she sat on her office chair rolled close by him. A scent of fruits, flowers, and garden favorites emanated from her neck. The fragrance was arousing, intoxicating Nathan's sense of smell with the fires of lust. Damn, did they always have to make perfume (or was it lotion) smell so nice? 

Sofia nodded. "She's pretty," she said, rather amused. "I'm kind of surprised you can actually get a girl that looks good!"

Nathan glared at her with narrowing eyes. 

"_Okay,_ just kidding! I was just kidding, Nate!" 

"You better" Nathan said in a mocking tone of anger. He then laughed at her. "You know I'm not that type, Sofi. I'd never lay a finger on you"

"I guess so's," her sweet smile came up, "yeah, I know you be that nice guy all there being sweet and all." She smirked a sugar-coated look at him. "So what kind of Asian is she—and what kind of Asian are _you_, Nate? I was kinda trippin over how you were either Vietnamese or Filipino."

Nathan puffed out a small snicker. "_I_ look Filipino?" He smiled. Now _that_ was definitely a compliment, and he wasn't even being sarcastic. There were a few times when some people mistaken him for being Chinese, Japanese, Korean, and even Hawaiian! So Nathan was used to it—he didn't mind looking like a bunch of other races. As a matter of fact, that idea felt kind of cool. 

"Yeah, you look like a Filipino" Sofia said, "all dark and beautiful like our race is—just kidding, don't mean to be making my race seem better than yours—that's hella messed up." 

"Nah, it's cool."

"So then you're Vietnamese, right?" Sofia asked.

Nathan nodded. "It's _Viet',_ Sofi, just say _it sounds better. And another thing, don't say Vietnamese,' it's __Vin-a-mese._'" Nathan nodded again. "Yeah, that was just a lil Viet-Pride in me speakingyou know I have to show some love for my mother-land and everything." He laughed a little and leaned back in his office chair. 

"Oh, my bad, Nate," Sofia's voice breathed out. "Then _that_ means you better say Flip,' instead of Filipino,' cuz I'm tryin to show my Flip Pride' for my motherland too!" She brought herself to chuckle a little before resting herself back on the chair. She handed back Nathan's wallet. "So I take your lover's a _Vi-ET'_ also?" The way she stressed the word "Viet" sounded funny, like an overblown speech therapist. 

"Actually," Nathan said as he placed his wallet into his pocket, "She's half Viet and Chinese, and so happens to be placed in one _perfect'_ place, called Australia—freakin like half the world's distance is between us."

Sofia shook her head while making that _tsk-tsk_ sound with her tongue. "Damn Nate, that's _hella_ far. You could've at least chose someone farther than that." 

"Yeah—I know. I met her online—these things always make you fall for people from afarbut I love her, and I basically want her to be happy, that's all."

Another smirk appeared over Sofia's mouth. She tilted her head while rolling closer to him with her office chair. "You're sweet, Nathan," she said in a warm tone that almost made him want to reach out with his lips and kiss her. "You're cool. So how is it going between you and her?"

Nathan sat there, silently looking at the ground. Should he tell her? No, he shouldn't. Some secrets unlocking the past were best kept in the mind. If he ever let it out, then it'd be too much for him to hold back for in the future. And the thing was too sad, _too sad_ for Nathan to talk about. He would definitely be unable to handle it. He had loved Fiorella _that_ muchthe thoughts of her hurt him as much as it made his day better. 

"Me and her?" Nathan asked before continuing. "Oh, we're doing okay, I guess."

Sofia's eyes narrowed in that curious, investigator sort of way. "What you mean, Nate? Did something happen?"

He let out a small, unnoticeable sigh. Guess he'll just tell her a little hint. "Well," he said while keeping his eyes lowered, "something did happen between us, but it wasn't _really_ big—we just talk every now and then. Kind of recently, though, we haven't been keeping in touch. It's beginning to worry me a lil, but I'm fine as fine can be."

"But you still love her very much" Sofia acknowledged. 

Nathan nodded. "Yeah, I do. No matter where she's headed, I want to let her know that at least _someone_ out there cares for her—you know what I'm saying? I want her to feel great living on this earthand I'm just one of those people who are trying to help make that possible for her." 

"OhI see," she nodded, drawing an impressed look around his body. "For being such a caring guy, Nate, you've got one nice body working for you" She felt her hand around the bulging bump in Nathan's biceps. 

Her touch against his arm loosened a lot of the tension from that area. His eyebrows rose as he watched her slender hand rub around his thick muscle. He was enjoying that feeling she was giving him—that sudden splash of warmth around his body.

"You been working out, I see," Sofia said. "You're not as big as my boyfriend, but you can at least drive some girls crazy"

"No way," Nathan shook his head. "I'm no super pimp, Sofi. I just began working out in the gyms once I started going to boot camp every summer."

"Oh really?" Sofia said, looking impressed. "My boyfriend goes there too!"

"Yeah, in those places they can show you how to _really _be like a man."

"I heard. My boyfriend told me they taught him in almost the same way they did in the Marines—like how to manage some guns and other shit like that"

Guns. Nathan remembered the firearms from boot camp. He recalled the day when they drilled him on the M-16, while handing him that behemoth M-60 to try out. Nathan was able to gain a bit of understanding from both weapons pretty well. Same with the pistol. He impressed his friends when he was able to hold one pistol in each hand while firing away at multiple targets like Lara Croft on her best day in the tombs. But there was one weapon that Nathan had barely _any_ knowledge of, and that was the shotgun. During camp, he never had the chance to try out the shotgun, whether it be Remington, Winchester, or Browning. So when a day came for Nathan to actually try out a shotgun—he knew he'd surely miss the target the first time. Almost positive. 

"Gosh, just talking about my boyfriend makes me miss him _sooo _much," Sofia said.

She was seated close enough to him for their arms to touch. In other words, she was right beside him. She suddenly brought her head to rest on Nathan's shoulder. Her arms went around his back, forming a sideways hug. Nathan went along with the flowif the girl wanted to hold and caress him, then he'd let her do it! There was hardly anything better than having a fine girl by his side, nudging and sharing her softness with him. He rested his head against hers also. He remained quiet. 

"I miss him, Nate—sorry if I'm doing thisI'm probably making you feel too comfortable right now, but I just need someone to rest my head against." 

"It's all good," Nathan said happily. He was close enough to smell her body—the fine scent of the tropics and the sea of nature flooded his nose. It was sweet, rushing into his chest as he breathed in. And her hairGod, was it lovely. The silky feeling against his cheek felt moistalong with being soft and brushy. All that combined with the warmth of her pretty face that was clean and flawless at every corner. 

_Ever thought about modeling?_ Nathan asked her in his head. Surely, Sofia was at her normal self now. Just a minute ago before his daydream, she was a raving PMS bitch—but now hours later, she was this cuddly, sexy thing wrapping her arms around him. 

"I think you're the nicest guy I've ever met," this sexy thing said.

"Nah, it can't beI'm not"

"Stop denying it, Nate, you always can't accept a compliment, I swear."

"Butdoesn't your boyfriend treat you better?" Nathan asked. Surely, he couldn't be the nicest guy to this fine thing embracing him. It just sounded too good to be true. 

"Oh, he just enjoys fucking me" Sofia said harshly, "but I still love him" She paused for a moment. "You know I was just joking, right?"

"I got you." 

"Yeah, he really thinks of me—"

"CERBERUS!" A child's voice shattered the blissful peace. A roaring dog's bark accompanied the voice. "Don't act up on me now—Cerberus!" The voice continued.

Nathan broke away from the heaven he was experiencing and stood up. He saw a blonde-haired girl literally being _pulled_ into the Lobby by the biggest Rottweiler he's ever seen. The big black thing looked to be almost 4 feet long from where Nathan was obser-ving. The girl screaming commands at the dog looked about twelve years old. She was strangely dressed, though. She looked as if she was dressed to go to some private school in Japan. A gold locket hanging from her neck swayed as she moved. The circular case at the end of the necklace hung low, while touching her stomach area. The dog continued to bark, growling as it commenced to drag the girl farther into the hospital. 

"Whoa, whoa" Nathan said, bringing his hands up. "No animals in the hospital! You gotta leash that beast outside!" 

The dog stiffened, stopping short as Nathan came closer to it. It growled, giving out that guttural _rrrrrrrrr_ sound. Its dark lips were pulled back, revealing a set of its menacing teeth that were equipped with fangs long enough to shred past Nathan's neck. 

It barked, crashing its sounds straight at Nathan's face. It leapt at him, but it didn't reach him. _Thank God for that leash,_ he thought. The limp, leather strip abruptly grew taut, straightening out as the Rottweiler struggled into trying to break free from its collar enclosing its neck. Its whole collection of enclosed teeth sneered up at him. 

_"CERBERUS!"_ The girl screamed again. "Stop it, I command you. _Stop_ it!"

The bark suddenly faded. The dog began to calm down to a point where it just sat there, panting while it wagged its tail. Nathan saw the little girl bend over and face her pet. 

"Good dog, Cerberus," the girl slapped its face, "good dog."

Nathan stood there, keeping his eye on Cerberus as he stepped his way closer to the little girl. "That's a nice dog," he said.

The girl didn't say anything. She kept her head down facing the floor. 

"Okay, sorry for the little inconvenience," Nathan said, "but policies are policies, and I can't let you in unless you leash that dog out there."

The girl continued to stare at the floor. 

Nathan stood there looking down at her. She was about 4'11"—courtesy of Nathan's professional height estimation. The look on her face, as she continued to stare down at the ground, housed a certain degree of disgrace and fear. 

"Sowhat's your name?" Nathan asked.

The girl took a moment to respond. "S-Sherry," she said quietly. 

_That was funny,_ Nathan thought, _one moment she was screaming louder than I ever couldand the next, she has problems with communication._

Nathan crouched low so he stood shorter than Sherry. The dog was now right beside himit grinned through its eager panting. He looked up into her eyes. 

"Hey, Sherry" he cleared his throat, "I'm sorry, I can't let you in here unless you keep good ol Cerberus on a leash outsideI know the dog's probably dying to meet new people and all, but some of those people can" 

"suffer from allergic reactions ranging from the strands in their fur to dust mites inhabiting their hidesthis also includes cats, andand other mammalswas I right?"

Nathan's eyes widened. _Whoa, kid genius here_, he thought. He nodded as he smiled. "Yeah—yeah, you're more than rightso, you think you can do that?" 

Sherry paused again. "Yeah. Cerberus was acting a little strange today—I tried giving him some of my breakfast, andand he still won't stop trying to kill everyone!"

"Well, the big guy looks calm now, you can try putting him away before he snaps and ends up tearing off my arm or something."

"Okay, I'll be back then," she said silently. There was something wrong with the little girl that Nathan could see. The child was definitely lacking something. From the looks of it, she seemed as if she didn't have any confidence in herself—but at the same time, looked like one of those kids that were really smart at school. He waved at her.

"You take care," Nathan said. She didn't respond. He could see she was a shy person, and Nathan had to give shy people a chancethey weren't exactly born to be stand-up comedians or politicians by that matter, but they always made you terribly worried in one way or another. He watched her walk past the sliding doors to exit the hospital. 

"Nate," Sofia called out once he made his way back to the desk. She was leaning back in her seat, looking dreamy as she was looking up. Actually, while she was caught in that gaze, she was beginning to look like she was horny. "You think I look better this way?" 

Nathan stopped and looked at her polo shirt. The three buttons on the top of the shirt were undone. A V-shaped opening was spread apart on her polo shirt. It revealed a bit of skin for his eyes to peek, but it wasn't enough to show any of her breasts though. So in conclusion, it made Nathan think a little about sex, but it didn't look make her look all _that_ different.

"Sofi," Nathan said, "for the sake of volunteering, you look like a slut—for the sake of sex appeal, you look gorgeous." 

"So your answer is?"

Nathan looked around the desk. He saw the reminder about the pharmacy orders he had to do. He then looked back up at Sofia. "My answer to you is that I've gotta do the pharmacy orders now," Nathan said. He felt rather apologetic.

A yearning expression came into her face. "Ah, Nate! Why you gotta leave me here _alone! _I need you right here by me!" 

"It's gonna be quick, Sofi, I'll be back, I promise."

"Promise?" Sofia smiled. She fluttered her eyelids at him. 

"Yeah, I'll come back and we'll finish that quality time we had, okay?"

She nodded, laughing. "I was playin, Nate. When you go up there, say hi to Duane for me, and tell him I think he looks hella nice."

"I will." Nathan smiled. Duane Tobalezthe nurse. He'll say _something _to him once he got up there. The guy needed to be taught a lesson after he beat Nate 14-6 in basketball last week. Oh yes, a little _talk_ will do. 

"Good," Sofia said. "I'll see you later then, okay?"

"Yeah, no problem," Nathan replied. He left for the elevators. 

That was the last time he ever saw Sofia for a very, _very_ long time. 

  


  


15__

2:45 P.M., Coroner's House, Northwest Section.

Elliot Edward stood among the crowd of investigators milling around the crime scene. He dug his fingers into the brown bag and pulled out a donut. It was one of those powdered kinds that make the tips of your fingers white after you finished them. He forced it into his mouth and took a large bite out of it. Fragments of the feathery crumbs broke away and settled onto the floor. 

"Hey Eds! How's my gut-buddy doin?!"

Elliot's shoulders leapt up. He almost dropped his bag while his eyes widened. It was Willie. Goddamned Willie and his scare tactics. For a while, it almost seemed as if today was the day he'd finally choke on a donut and die. He snapped his head around. 

Elliot mumbled from his donut-filled mouth. His small outburst sent out a flurry of crumbs. "Christ Willie, you almost gave me a heart attack!"

Willie tapped his shoulder, smiling to himself. "Eds," he said while giving out a disgusted expression, "man, why you gotta be eatin donuts, you know that shit will give you nothing but gut!"

Eds chuckled, his mouth continuing to send out bits of the donut. "Willie, you need not worry about that belly of mine," his hoarse voice growled. "As far as I'm concerned, its already all nothing _but_ gut!" He laughed out loud, spewing out a cluster of soggy crumbs.

"Eds, you worry me," Willie shook his head as he snickered, "someday them donuts gonna catch up on you and make you the fattest man alive." 

"Ha! I won't live to see that day" Eds replied. He bit into another donut. "I'm already old, Willie, its too late for the bastards to catch me!"

Willie shook his head. "Whatever, Eds, you're just the average pitiful old man striving to survive." He laughed playfully.

"So where's Leon_Mr. Kennedy_, I presume?" Eds asked. 

"Ah, he's stuck" Willie then burst out laughing. "He's stuck on a patrol in the Northeast Section!" 

Eds chuckled, then began guffawing violently. The Northeast Section was a joke for all cops. Nothing happened up therethe most serious threats included parking violations and jaywalkers. "Now _that's _a laughing matter!" Eds cried out. 

"And you figure the little guy needs bigger assignments" Willie added.

"That Irons," Eds grunted, "he's gotta be a bastard for sending him up there."

"I know" Willie then calmed himself from his fit of laughter. "So what's the deal down here? I was called a minute ago. Was about some homicide, right?"

Eds crumbled his bag in between his fists. "Yeah, another homicide involving the MeatHook Manglerbody's in the bedroom. Looks as if we've got Fedsand even Internal Affairs pressing their noses in." 

"Ah, _damn,_ another one involving those jackass, tight-necks?"

He nodded his head. "The Bureau now confirms he has a direct link to Umbrella. They're now suspecting him to be involved in some sort of conspiracy having to do with the contamination."

"Then why's he killing people then?"

"To prove his point." Eds placed his hands in his pocket. "Irons told officials that Birkin was very sure of his demands, and he'd hang anyone that stood his way."

Willie scuffed at the floor with his shoes. "So what we doin standing here, then?"

"I needed to finish my donuts," Eds replied. 

"Ah, screw your donuts, old man, we got a world to save!"

Eds picked up a styrofoam cup and sipped the coffee out of it. "You go ahead without me, Willie, I'll catch up after you."

He shook his head. "_Eds,_" Willie said, while adding some scorn in his comment, "I can't imagine what you're gonna be like in the next ten yearsyou probably gonna be runnin around, chasin down them crooks with your silly walker." He then chuckled. 

The foam cup Eds had in his hands compressed and ripped away from his squeeze at it. "Nah," Eds chuckled in return, "I'll be hot down their trails with my speedy electric wheelchair. And I'll also have my own personal siren on top of my head to go along with."

Willie laughed for a while, then abruptly stopped. "You crack me up, old man," he said sarcastically. Eds gave him a nervous smile in return. 

Willie then nodded and left. 

"I gotta tell you, Will," Sergeant Ty Roberts said, "I've seen some of the work this sick fuck has donebut I've seen nothing as bad as this."

Willie patted Ty's shoulder, "Don't worry bout it, Ty, I'm as black as you are, I can take it."

He looked back at Willie with a set of fearsome eyes. 

"Okay," Willie said apologetically, "I'll be keeping a serious face, I promise."

Ty kept a stare at Willie. "You better, Burrow, because this isn't a laughing matter." He slowly pushed the door open, unveiling the whole murder scene. 

_Holy shit,_ Willie said in his mind as he saw the bodies on the bed. 

Behind the yellow tape Willie had to duck under before stepping into the room, the investigators and various agents probed around the most disturbing piece of visage Willie had ever laid eyes upon. Two bodies—one that must have been Coroner Dr. Havenry, and the other some prostitute he picked off the street, were suspended in the air, locked in a sexual position. A meat hook was lodged through the both of them. The girl was on top of him, her head was slumped forward while the metal of the hook crawled from under Havenry's lower back, up through where his penis should've been, and further up through the girl's midriff. Their floating bodies gently swayed from the movement of the other officers around the area. Geez, it looked like something out of a James Patterson novel. 

"When this happen?" Willie asked Ty, "and _how_ many more of these cases are we gonna expect?"

"As I believe, this happened around two days ago—we're still not even sure yet. And all I can say to answer your next question is that I'm not sure about that either."

Willie crouched and examined a patch of dried blood on the carpet. "So you're telling me that there is no way we can determine _anything_ out of this investigation?"

Ty nodded. "For some reason, Will, Irons is the only guy with the solution to the Birkin case, and It's at the barn"

"But don't you think the barn is a little of an obvious place to bag this lunatic? I hate to break it to you, Ty, but this solution we have in meeting him at the barn sounds a little too good to be true in my own head to even give a shit about." 

"The man's good," Ty said, "all I know of is that he's _damn_ good. Nobody else can be as confident of his whereabouts as well as Irons is."

Willie stood up. "Know what, Ty. I've got a really bad feeling about a lot of this. I mean it, _something_ ain't right around about this whole MeatHook Mangler thing. I feel like its some set-up, if you know what I mean."

"Don't be so full of bullshit, Burrow, I may slack off in my work sometime, but I at least keep my head straight—"

"No, _you_ listen to me for once, my beloved, ebony brother. I was called here to check this body out—that's fine with me. Now, as we are speaking—in case your stuck-up ass hasn't been keeping up to current events lately—the station is being attacked by things we're referring to as zombies,' and if—"

_"Zombies?"_ Ty asked skeptically. 

"Zombies," Willie acknowledged, "Ty, I've never lied to you, man. They keep tellin us over and over, _zombies_." 

"Butno, Will, now this ain't no—"

"It ain't no fucking joke, Roberts. The station needs me down there _now_, and if you think another murder regarding that butcher is more important, then you're dead wrong. As far as _I'm _concerned, Ty, Irons wants us to focus on something else that's less important for our heads right now than what really _is_ important."

"You go along, Willie, I can't join you on your struggles. I need to help finish this investigation—this is my priority, and if Irons needs me at the barn by the late afternoon, then I'm gonna have to _be_ at that barn, you got that?"

Willie gave out a casual, brushing shrug. His head shook around. "All right, Ty, you do your thingbut I better not be catching you with your ass relaxed when we're gonna be in need of your help." 

Ty nodded. "I've been a cop for almost 6 years, Will, and I've never let a man in need down. You know that." 

"Yeah, I do," Willie replied blankly. "And I better be sure of that."

Willie then turned around and left the house; he headed straight to the station. 

16__

3:00 P.M., R.P.D. Station, Central Section—dangerously near the Northern Section.

David Ford kept his wits intact. The screams of his fellow officers were overwhelming to his thoughts. They assaulted his senses, serving only to numb him more than to add question on what exactly made them scream. His hands were bloody, and the silver of his .38 Smith & Wesson was streaked with that dark redness. He shuddered.

They were out there, moaningtrying to reach through the windows. 

David unlatched the cylinder of his gun and let the six empty casings fall out over his bloody self. One of them fell onto his wound, causing it to sting and lay heavy surges of pain through his arm. He winced. 

"I'm dyin, babybut I'm not gonna die" he said to himself in a way that made it sound like he was singing. The words hummed through the hot air. He closed his left hand over the nasty bite-wound splitting his arm. One of them had been able to sink their teeth into his right arm. _Damn_ it hurtand _damn_ he was also beginning to lose feeling in it from every few minutes since he was bitten. He looked down at his pistol and slowly loaded the bullets, one by one. 

Once he finished reloading his .38, David took the time to reorient himself around the situation and his surroundings—he felt too dazed to remember what had just happened before. And he was beginning to feel even more confused to go along with that.

The station was silentit was dead silent. David was sitting down, resting from the last attack they encountered a minute ago. They thought they killed them allthey were mistaken. When they attacked again in the noon, they took six more officers. The remnants of the R.P.D. were then not prepared for the next wave. And it was too late. He remembered seeing Sergeant Black being grabbed from the window by a pack of arms—bloody, shredded arms. They pulled him out while he screamed for his life. He was literally sucked out. Nobody could save him. All they could hear was the _squishing_, _ripping_ noise that ended in Black's blood being flung from the windows. 

And they were terrified, when Winston became one of them. His eyes had left himwhile growing white. He began making low, indistinct noises. David could remember. How could he ever forget that? David was the one that put the bullet into his head afterwards. Everybody else was too frightened to respond. 

And nowDavid felt like he was beginning to become one of them also. He didn't know how it came to bebut he concluded that it had something to do with whether they already bit you or not. And David then gasped to his sudden realization. 

Everyone had been bitthat was seven in all for his squad. 

_Enough of that_, David thought. He was already worrying enough whether the things would actually crash through the windows like they had done in the last encounter. He needed someone to board the windows. They had to board up the windows of the Southwest Hallthey had to. 

_And what about thoseother things, _his mind flashed. 

David shivered again. He shivered so violently that some of his sweat went into the wall. Yes, there were the other things. 

With Drake's help, while costing the life of Helmsworth, David managed to kill off one of those things that crawled on the walls. Thosecreatures with the tongues. It lashed through Helmworth's neck, slicing it open. There was so much blood spouting from that large slit. But Drake was able to weaken the thing by firing at it with his pistol. David was then able to ram the broken leg of a table down its exposed brain. He remembered it wriggling as it screamed. Its scream was a scream he'd never forget. 

_Lickers_his mind called out again, _they were called Lickers_

Goosebumps bulged from the back of his neck and down his arms. If the Lickers came, then they'd surely be finished. If they barely stood a chance against the zombies, then the Lickers were impossible to ward off. 

Where the _hell_ was Irons? Where the _hell_ were all the other cops? David grew impatient. There were hundreds of them filling up the station a few hours ago. They were gone now. But they were definitely coming back. David made sure of that.

_They better come,_ he thought, _they better_

Something crashed through the window from the hallway. David heard it coming from behind him. He turned his head to looked back. 

An arm, with missing patches of skin and blood leaking from its fingers crawled into the forced opening it made. It felt around, probing for something to grab. David saw the body of Lieutenant Randy below the searching hand. The hand felt around the wall, leaving streaks of blood all over it. It came around Randy's head and stopped. 

It then seized the body's head, clenching the upper jaw with its fingers. Randy's lower jaw fell, as if he were screaming from what was happening to his dead self. The arm pulled the body up, its fingers holding it from its mouth. Lieutenant Brad Randy, 2nd year into the force, having a family of two kids and a loving wife, and was one of the more enlightened cops of the R.P.D., had his body pulled out the window. 

The sound of _tearing_ cut the silence away, filling it up with noisy _slurps_ and _squirms_ echoing across the hall. 

As the sound continued, David looked up and saw several shadows beginning to appear through the window. Scuffling noises, like the lazy tread of shoes being slid across the pavement, poured into the hallway. David's grip on his pistol tightened. 

_They better come_ he thought, shaking, _they better come down hereor else_

The sound continued through the halls, growing louder, more intense. 

David heard a series of moans wailing from the windows behind him. 

He slowly got up to his feet, limping a little in almost the same way those zombies were. He struggled himself to turn around while raising his pistol. 

A darkened figure appeared through the broken window, peering in at him. Its head was tilted to the left—locked in that position as it made stiff movements toward the window. 

David pulled the triggerhe kept on pulling the trigger while maintaining a drunken aim at the windows. 

He never stopped firing his gun. 

17

Now that Claire thought of it, she wasn't expected to get to Raccoon City as planned. The whole process of trying to find gas, _then _riding through two-hundred miles to reach the city before nightfall instantly became more of fantasy. She had a rough estimate before, that being there by 8 P.M. sounded reasonable to her judgements, but now, that idea was simply bordering toward the impossible. 

_11 P.M._ sounded more reasonablemaybe even 10:30 if she got lucky. 

Claire scooped some dirt up with her boot. The yellowish haze sent from her frustration curled in the air and dissipated as it spread over. She was pissed, no doubt. The demands were way too far-fetched to satisfy at this point. 

But she continued to walk anyway. The road ahead seemed to be endless, dropping mirages at one time while twisting into a barren plain in another. And that sun, that_sun_. It was roasting the hell out of her! 

Sweat soaked the areas she had her clothes on. Damn, she felt like taking them off or some other idea similar to that. But_no_, that was a dumb idea. _Really_ dumb. Those crows could come back and tear her to shreds. Yeah, those big, black birds that scared her back at the Call Box. She wondered if they were still hanging around her bike, sitting there while waiting for her to return with those large, blood-soaked beaks 

She shivered. Claire crossed her arms. She felt so alone, so afraid on this empty road. 

"Ethan," she said to herself, hoping that somehow he could hear her. "When I come back—or when I see you again, I'm gonna give you one fat, _Big Red_ kiss." She then looked at the clear, blue sky. "And _that's _because I miss you very, _very_ much, my baby."

Claire didn't know why she said that, but it helped her ease with the loneliness she was feeling. Yep, she didn't exactly know why, but she did say it.

The sky was actually beautiful at this time. It glistened, bringing out that radiant glow from the sun. Claire couldn't help but feel better from it. The blue color of the sky when seen with the gold desert landscape brought meaning behind its beauty. A cactus standing in the middle of the desert looked harmless within its thorny hide. A brown little squirrel scurried across the dirt, causing its fluffy tail to stand erect. Among the grass, a pair of roadrunners skipped within the thin blades. The small shrubs wobbled kindly to her. Everything scanned by Claire's eye brought a panoramic view of peace and serenity. Now that seemed so strange, since it appeared so threatening a while ago. 

Claire stepped on something. 

At the first thought, she should've paid more attention to the ground she was stepping on, but now as she came to think of it, Claire wished she hadn't looked down. Whatever her heel came down upon, it felt soft below her foot. It cushioned her step. It feathered it the same way those _Nike _air bubbles did. 

It was a hand—an arm to be exact. An arm of a dead corpse.

Claire's heart jumped as she reacted, frantically stepping back as if to avoid its clutch on her. It was protruding from the hardened soil. A recent mudslide in the area must of buried the body, while leaving the arm sticking from the ground. Orshe paused to think a moment, it could've been because of something else. She continued to keep her eye on it. The arm was dry, withered to an awful purplish tint. The skin, failing to decompose from the dry heat, had that scrunched look. It gave Claire the impression its skin was rough, being wrinkled to the point of resembling a crumpled bag. Large shreds of the arm's leathery tissue were splayed around, revealing some shriveled flesh into her eyes. 

_The crows must of done that,_ Claire thought, _thosecrows pecked at him. _

Claire focused her eyes on its hand. Something was clenched in its palm. She crouched to examine what its hand was holding. It looked like a piece of paper rolled neatly in between its fingers. Whatever it was, it must be of some value—anything was practically helpful to her at this very moment. She might as well take advantage of it. Claire then tried forcing the hand open using her fingers. The white bone of its knuckles wiggled in its slots. With some effort in trying not to be squeamish, Claire managed to finger the note out, brushing away at it with the back of her palms. She unrolled it, hearing the crisp crumple from its aged texture. She looked closely at it. The wording was a bit hard to make out, but she was able to identify the words. It read:

Welcome to the World of Survival Horror 

> > -- Courtesy of CAPCOM USA and the DRTiMoNk 

Claire paused for a moment, her faced housing that disgusted look. _Who the hell was sick enough to write this?_ she thought. _Survival horror?_ _What exactly was this, some kind of joke? _Claire stood there and pondered the question. Was the body expecting someone like Claire to pick up that note, getting one hell of a laugh while she continued to worry over it? Well, whomever that person was, he deserved to be buried this way. Definitely. Claire always hated this kind of suspense, it always made her feel more vulnerable than she already was. 

And who and _what _was "Capcom USA?" Some demented company bent on making her days a lot worse? What about "DRTiMoNk?" The dirty bastard that started it all? Claire shook her head. What a world.

She ripped up the note and let it scatter into the wind. Nothing else made her more angry than a worthless message trying to foreshadow things to come. Especially if it was something "horrible" she had to live or "survive" through.

She gave out a sigh and looked at the road spanning far ahead of her. If she was being welcomed into this "World of Survival Horror," then she better hope it meant she'd survive it. Geez, just thinking about it gave her the creeps. Claire wasn't an ill-tempered person, nor did she lack a sense of humor, but something like this was way too far. Here she was alone in a place that looked more like Nevada than Oregon, being without gas while she had to make a deadline with _El Diablo_ himself. Sorry kids, but Claire Redfield has no vacancies for jokes this time of day. Real answers is what she needed. Some real good advice on how to get the fuck out of this situation! 

She then began her stride down the road. She felt like she was on PMS, but it was fine. Nobody was here to witness it. Nobody except that dead body buried down there. She was to get to Raccoon City before it was too late. She didn't care if it took all day, as long as she could _get there_, it'll be fine for her. Fine enough. 

As Claire Redfield walked away from the arm poking itself from the ground, it began to move. Like the zombies plaguing Raccoon that very moment, the arm inched around, probing the ground surrounding it. It then brought itself up, waving a "goodbye" to Claire's turned back. It then burrowed itself back into the ground, disappearing from viewand from this story. 

18

The elevator doors opened, jerking as the twin metallic layers slid away. They split from one another, causing Nathan to peer through an opening leading into the ground floor. A rolling countertop with large lettering that said: WHEA, and under it: ACTIVITY CENTER, welcomed him. Standing beside it, some vending machines also ushered his entry. One of them dispensed candy, while the other gave away red cans neatly embroi-dered with the logo: CHO CHO COLA.

_Now, I'd rather drink that shit than the crap in Umbrella Cola_, Nathan thought.

He strolled into the brightly-lit ground floor of Washington Hospital. The whole underground floor was consisted of a maze of halls leading into a whole variety of rooms. Come to think of it, Nathan saw the halls as being quite creepy. He stood in the middle of a corridor that stretched far enough to lose sight of a person in the far end. And in the far end, it was dark—being enclosed by shadows from the lack of light caused by the dim fluorescent beams. _I wonder what could be hiding back there,_ Nathan thought to himself while adding a small tremble. _At night—when most of the staff has gone home, and the hospital becomes a dark place, what can bring itself to hide back there? _Something_ can be back there this very minutewatching me._ Nathan took his eyes away and shook his head. He was being paranoid, most definitely. _You're here to do pharmacy orders, Nate, quit worrying about what's _not_ gonna happen! There is absolutely nothing back there for you to worry about! _

"I'm going crazy," he said to himself, "I'm worrying my ass off." 

He passed by a heavyset door that had a tiny peephole. PBX. Nathan didn't exactly remember what the letters stood for, but he knew the first two were "Public Broadcas-ting," which was all he had to know, basically. 

You call PBX and tell them it was all an accident—you accidentally pressed it. 

Nathan's face distorted a little while the voice of Crewcut passed over him. He barely had any idea what the psycho's name was. He was just known as Crewcut. But to Nathan, at that moment, he was sure glad that mama's boy was taken cared of. It'd be a real bitch if the fucker showed his face here again. 

A band of doctors and nurses passed by him. For a floor under the hospital, there were sure a lot of personnel milling around. Then again, as Nathan thought about it, today was the day of that so-called "contamination." Nathan shrugged it off. He could care less about that city-wide scare for nowhe was tired, tired in that sleepy, irritable sort of way. He needed some sleep.

Nathan Lieu was one of those few people that could stay up all night and still function normally the following day. Last night was one of the longest evenings he had to struggle with. There was history homework to do, Physics questions to ponder, AP English essays to tackle, and, worst of all, there was Pre-Calculus. If there was anything else in the world other than Umbrella Cola to hate, there was always Pre-Calculus. And that math teacher. That fucking math teacher. 

If it wasn't for that bitch Mrs. Kennedy, he wouldn't have had to stay up all night trying to study those stupid logarithms and polar equations. He was practically failing that class from her constant barrage of tests and impossible "outcomes" one had to finish in order to pass her class. And she couldn't teachwhich rose his hatred for Pre-Calculus even more. When asking her about the principle of mathematical induction, she simply said, "Nate, my boy, why don't you just _do_ the math since that is what we're all doing!" The following test for that chapter had him studying for nearly three hours a day. He earned a 45%—an F, in other words. Etched over his test paper from her fat red marker, she wrote, "I SAID TO DO THE MATH, BOY. YOU DIDN'T UNDERSTAND." Nathan was haunted by that statement for the whole week. He was determined to prove that bitch wrong. If she wanted him to do the math, then math was to be done in the kick-ass, Lieu-patented tradition.

For the next test, Nathan tried her formula of "doing the math." This time he hired a tutor, studying for at least four hours a day prior to the test date. He made multitudes of notes for the chapter. He absorbed all the information. Hell, he even tried praying. 

Nice trybut life isn't fair. 

A thick 53% was engraved into his paper. Nathan was furious. He felt like shredding his paper while using its remains as spitballs specially prepared for the teacher. "DO YOU UNDERSTAND ENGLISH," the next degrading message displayed. 

The next day, Nathan showed his test paper to another math teacher next door. He simply wanted to see if he was really being cheated or not. The situation could, after all, turn out to be one bad case of affirmative action. 

"This isn't right," the teacher said while tapping his pencil over Nathan's paper, "I think Mrs. Kennedy was nice giving you 53%—if I were your teacher" His eyes then narrowed. "I wouldn't even give you credit—I'd simply have you retake this test. It's all wrong, _wrong!_" 

So Nathan was confused—was it the system that was driving him up the wall, or was it his own self? Nathan simply blamed the math teacher. She was the one who began his streak of failure for mathematics. He was doing well in every other class, excelling in all subjects _except_ Pre-Calculus. In matter of speaking, Nathan Lieu was nobody's dumbass—he was college-bound, and if some corrupted, Irvington math program wanted to stop him from doing so, then _fine,_ it was war! He wanted to graduatethen decide what was right in his life. 

So he studied all last night—from dusk till dawn, only to find out that school was out because of the contamination. _Yes!_ So basically, what Nathan was now looking forward to was a good long nap to rejuvenate some life into his soul. And it was going to take _lots_ of good sleep to recharge his much-needed batteries. 

Nathan put his hands in his pockets once he made it to the hospital's pharmacy. A large window with a metallic countertop stuck out from the wall. It reminded him of those ticket booths in front of movie theaters. He'd almost expect the pharmacist to talk to him from a little speaker installed over the wall beside him. Nathan pressed the red button located near the glass. A sharp _buzz_ sawed through the interior of the pharmacist's room. 

A short (like Nathan), quirky man of about 5'3" came peering out from the window. He pulled it up. The thick glasses over his gawky face hung unevenly from him, as bundles of his white hair clumped its way down his head. The guy looked like Mr. Kawamura, Nathan's Physics teacher. 

"Hello" the pharmacist greeted clumsily, "how are you doing, Nathan?"

Nathan smiled a little while resting his arms on the countertop. "I'm a little tired, Mr. Chau," he said wearily, "but I'm doing fine, thanks." 

Chau chuckled, his head vibrating while it rocked through his head. "Tired, _really?_" 

"Yeah," Nathan said, "I was supposed to have my math test today, but that contamination's going on"

The expression energizing Chau's face erased itself. "Oh, don't talk too much about that Nathan," he said in a manner that made it sound a lot more dangerous than it really was. "Umbrella here tell us not to worry about it! Just keep _quiet!_" 

Nathan kept his face still. He nodded. "_Okay_, Mr. Chau, I'll do that. I mean, the worst I have to worry about will be that damn test tomorrow."

Chau nodded. He did that solemnly. "No worry about that test, Nathan," he said while dipping under to get the pharmacy folder. "I believe you'll do real well."

Nathan laughed a bit. "Yeah, it'll take an act of God" he said while beginning to wonder about what Chau said before. He had said something about Umbrellathat he needed not to worry about something. "Hey Mr. Chau, what did you mean about Umbrella telling us not to worry about the contamination?"

The folder slid across the counter and into Nathan's arms. "Since police is suspecting Umbrella of the contamination, they keep telling us that, that all," Chau said.

"What, _really?_ The police is after Umbrella?" Nathan asked enthusiastically. So maybe he won't be seeing Umbrella Cola again after all—now _that_ was another triumph for mankind. He'd better go tell Sofia thatshe'll probably go mad over it! 

The lights went out. Everything became devoured by the shadows. It blanketed the whole floor in darkness, causing Nathan to become disoriented from his sudden blindness. The lights shortly came on again, resuming the brightness that kept the ground floor visible.

Nathan glanced around him, confused. He looked at Chau. "What just happened there?"

Chau kept his stern face. "Power outage, Nathan. It must have been our generator growing weak."

"_Weak_ generator? You think its going to be safe for me to use the elevators?"

"Yesll be fine. Whenever the first generator goes out, the auxiliary takes over" Chau paused for a moment. He began to look down, deep in thought.

"Mr. Chauis there anything wrong?"

Chau broke away and looked at Nathan. "Well, there just _might_ be a slight problem when our power goes out again."

"Oh yea? What's that?"

"Because of previous outages in the last week, I think our auxiliary generator has grown weak. I don't think the hospital can withstand another blackout in this city for at least another three days."

That startled Nathan. What would happen if there was going to be another blackout? Would everybody be trapped? Nathan wanted to clarify from the tone of Chau's voice that it _wasn't_ such a big deal. "Is that a really bad thing?"

"Wellyes, in a way, Nathan. If the power for the hospital goes out, then our auxiliary generator will leave us with nothing but dim lights and hardly any electricity."

"So that _is_ a really bad thing?" Nathan tried to clarify. 

"Yes," Chau acknowledged. "Just don't worry, Nathan, by the time you leave this hospital, the problem should be fixed."

"Oh it better," Nathan said with some contempt. "I don't think Washington Hospital can take any more lawsuits, I mean _man_ I better make it out alive before my shift's over."

Chau laughed, rocking his head while pointing at him. "Don't _worry_, Nathan," his voice squeaked, "you'll be fine, I promise!"

The pharmacy folder Nathan had in his hands began to dampen from his sweaty palms. Whatever Chau said better not happen—it better not. "Okay then, Mr. Chau, you take care," Nathan said as he left walking down the hall. 

"Goodbye, Nathan," he heard him respond. From his tone, Nathan assumed he was just as afraid of this situation as he was. Chau was, anyway, working at Washington. 

And to Nathan's theory, Washington Hospital was full of many disturbing secrets. 

It was a routine job to deliver the pharmacy orders. Nathan thought a little about it while he began walking around the halls of the ground floor. The Washington Hospital Volunteer Service requested him to begin doing the favor last month when they decided to have volunteers carry the deeds rather than the nurses working above. What the job simply consisted of was to have a volunteer just like Nathan travel up the designated floors of the hospital while collecting pharmacy orders from each of the Nurse's Stations for each floor. After that, he'd simply return the folder to the ground floor pharmacy and continue on his shift. Nathan actually liked doing this—even though it seemed boring as hell, it sure beat sitting there behind a desk daydreaming of better times. Although now, since Sofia was up there, he felt like being behind that desk. 

But who cares, it didn't hurt to burn some calories before they accumulated. 

Nathan sighed as he crossed the closed doors of each room down the hall. A room with a thick door and peephole much like PBX caught his attention. The Security Room. He remembered venturing into that place while Volunteer Services conducted their tour. All he remembered about it was the dozens of small bluish screens showing almost every area within the hospital. 

_So that's how they caught Crewcut,_ Nathan thought. 

He then began passing by more rooms that included X-ray, Radioactive Chemo-therapy, Furnace Area, Medical Staff Pool, and Media Room before stopping at a fork in the hallway. He looked around, turning his head towards the sufficiently-lit left side, then pivoting around to glance at the shadowy right end. To the left were the elevators where he was supposed to go, but to the right as Nathan kept his stare, there was

_Umbrella._

He stood there, head turned, pharmacy folder in hand. His eyes were wide with curiosity. The Umbrella Laboratory. Nathan never had a chance to check out what the new place looked like since they had their Grand Opening last month. He never cared about it. But today, his stare down that hall was as concentrated as any proud consumer of their "prized" products. His sight of an empty wheelchair underneath the shadows caused a slight chill to crawl up his spine. Damn, and he thought the rest of the ground floor looked creepy. 

A number of hospital beds lied still beside the walls. They were empty. The dimming fluorescent bulbs glimmered above them, casting a pale, saturation of color upon them. On each bed, tubes twisted down a metallic rod, coiling around like vines. The bag where the contents of the tubes descended from were filled with a reddish material that must have been at least a few days old. Reflecting from the plastic surface of the bag, the glowing entrance to Umbrella glowed. The entrance was surrounded by an aura of red light from its special light source. It lit the darkness in conjunction with the dimming lights. Nathan took a few steps toward the entrance while examining it briefly. 

It was a large double door—a heavily layered, wall of steel. It was full of electronic dials, card slots, key holes, and glowing displays flashing the corporation's symbol. To put it in simpler terms, it looked a lot different than the other doors Nathan passed by earlier. While the other doors of the ground floor had their best form of security being nothing but a key to unlock, the entrance to the Umbrella Lab looked more like a bank vault than its puny counterparts. 

_All that for a soda that tastes like shit_, Nathan thought, noticing the large label printed over the left door. It had its official red-white symbol and everything. 

"Nice touch," Nathan commented, "now it looks like a larger version of the soda can." His eyes scanned over the right side of the double door. He paused, studying every detail for a moment. His eyebrows narrowed in that perplexed, well-looky-here kind of expression. The upper portion read in oversized, scripted letters:

Welcome to the Raccoon City _Umbrella_ _Laboratory_,

Birthplace of your Favorite 

Fragrance and **Beverage**!

And under the immense lettering, Nathan saw a much smaller sign which should have been a lot bigger than the rest of the other ones. Dwarfed from the other gargantuan labels sur-rounding it, this one read: 

****

BIOHAZARD

CAUTION

BIOLOGICAL

HAZARD

****

This Laboratory 

Conforms to

USG P4/EK3

Genetic Protocols

That was the best piece of modern irony Nathan had ever seen. He laughed to himself. Now _that_ was why he never came close to touching their piece-of-crap colas (let alone their fragrance products!). There were more messages under that sign as Nathan read in wonder. Right under the Biohazard symbol they read: 

CAUTION

TERATOGENIC SUBSTANCES

PREGNANT WOMEN AVOID EXPOSURE

TO AREAS BEYOND THIS POINT

****

DANGER

RADIOACTIVE ISOTOPES IN USE

CARCINOGENIC POTENTIAL

Now what the hell was this? Nathan thought, smiling at the warning labels._ I thought they specialized in drinks and fragrance products! This fucking sounds more like a chemical weapons factory!_ He had no idea what the scientific jargon meant on those last signs, but whatever it was, it was definitely not something he wanted to find next to his favorite drink. Hell no. Nathan laughed, his voice echoing through the hallway. It was time to get going. He turned around and walked back to the elevators down the hall.

While he stood before the sliding doors of the elevator, he looked back at the halls. 

One last glance at the silly Umbrella entrance would be a nice thing to do

The smile on his face disappeared. Nathan felt his heart skipping beats.

The outline of a man stood in the middle of the darkened hall. His silhouette stood there as if he were a statue suddenly appearing out of nowhere. He was in front of the Lab doors. He was staring at him, staring straight at Nathan with his arms at his side. The man continued to stand there, watching himstudying him. 

Nathan turned and rushed into the elevator once it opened by his side. Once he was in, he leapt at the control buttons by the door's side. He frantically jabbed the CLOSE DOOR button with his thumb. When the elevator doors slid to close in front of him, Nathan still saw the figure out there—in the same position and in the same stance. Nathan shook his head as he pressed the button for the 3rd floor. He wasn't ever going near the Lab entrance again. That was for sure. Pussy or not, Nathan knew about Washington, and the last thing he needed was to end up like Ian and his fellow exploited volunteers.

The image of the man in the hall came flashing back into his head. 

Nathan shuddered as his weight shifted from the elevator pulling up. There were two details stuck in his memory from that dark shape in the hall. One of them was the whiteness that looked like a lab coat the man was wearing. The other detail—which was enough to scare Nathan away at a glance—was the fact resting in the man's right hand. In a hand that looked too massive for a person of that size, a large pole was enclosed within his grip. And that pole, Nathan remembered, was the biggest fucking pole he's ever seen. 

19

Nancy Garcia sat herself on the bed of room 17 in the third floor. The room of Mercedes Gamboa. Except there was no Mercedes Gamboa—she didn't exist. Her partner Marcel made up the name so they can share the room for private meetings. Nancy made sure the room was closed, and that nobody outside could know she was in here. She slowly brought her hand under the mattress and retrieved a filing folder. She untied the top and rested it over her lap while pulling out the contents.

Inside was a group of files from her partner. They had to keep communications down to relying on messages faxed from the Bureau headquarters. Any updates in the assignment were to be made in approximate times she was scheduled to receive these documents. Special orders had to be followed from these. 

Nancy thumbed through the layers of notes and information regarding the biological terrorist (_The MeatHook Mangler_), the status check for each agent around the area, the structure of the hospital, and etc., etc_etc._

It was a good thing she was already acquainted with most of the information from recent studies at home. She didn't have to waste time here reading over the material again. Actually, she kind of wanted to be home this minute. Just sitting on this bed reminded her of the comfort at home. She felt like stripping down to her T-shirt and underwear while curling up in bed with the case files in one hand and a café latte in the other. She'd also feel a lot better with a muscular member of the opposite sex by her side, caressing her. A nice backrub to go along with that would be an extra touch of bliss. Oh yes, a nice squeeze in the shoulders and a hand over her stomach. Nancy shook her head. She needed to remained focused, but for the time being she could need some comfort and satisfaction. 

Nancy found a note under the status sheet written from her partner Marcel. She looked it over and smiled. Scrawled over it was a poem, with a little of some _tender _affection courtesy of her partner. So, Marcel wanted to go out on a little "date". 

"4 West, room 14," Nancy read out while her smile brightened her face. "Marcel, if you ever want some _real_ quality time with me, then you should consider asking me face to face." She giggled to herself. Nancy couldn't help it, every agent pretty much wanted a piece of her. And the thought was only half as disturbing as it sounded. Here they were, men mostly in their thirties who never hesitated to ask this "young, feisty agent" for dinner. _Give me a break! _She only went for guys like Marcel—who was totally absent of that cold, silent, stereotype for an "G-man." 

Anyway, Nancy never had a decent relationship. Maybe because she was too sexy, or _too voluptuously irresistible_ someone once told her. She knew men mostly wanted her for her _nice ass,_ or probably for the fact that she had a certain resemblance to that actress Jennifer Lopez. It never occurred to Nancy she could rile up most men with those qualities. But she knew—and this through experience with the manipulation of the male hormones, that she could definitely force any man to do her bidding in bed. Oh yes, she was a skilled professional at that. When it came to sex, Nancy Garcia had the whip, and she wasn't afraid to use it. 

_Enough of that,_ her feminist side whispered,_ you know in the end, women will rule the earthyou know that, don't you, Nancy?_

Nancy pulled out her Glock, holding it with her right hand while gripping the slide with her left. She pulled back at it, causing the pistol to load the bullet into its chamber.

_I don't think so,_ her more submissive side responded,_ I can't live in this world without men, and if you want me to take your side on this, then the only thing I can agree on is that men are nothing but sex and a source of money. It's true, women hold a certain control over the decisions of men, but we need them around us in order to feel comfortable. _

Nancy shook her head, shaking off those thoughts. She never quite associated them with her real life, thank God. Those ideas usually drove her insane. 

She holstered her pistol and stood up, straightening her jacket while pushing her hair back. She wasn't quite sure as to be wary of the potential dangers in the hospital. For the time being, it seemed a nice place. Most of the troubles were to be handled at the barn by the late afternoon. Not here. The hospital was a quiet, serene place at this time. Nancy can indulge on some pleasures. She'll go see Marcel and see what he's got in store for her. And if it was something sexual, then that was _fine with her._

The door to the fictitious patient, Mercedes Gamboa, closed behind Nancy. The silence in the hall of the third floor made her feel uncomfortable from the noise she was making. The area was devoid of all people. This only made Nancy wonder where all the nurses went. She walked over toward the double doors leading into the main area of the floor and pushed it open. 

It was like opening a portal to a different dimension. A far more menacing one. 

Deafening chatter, screams, noises from various medical machines, and arguing among the personnel and customers assaulted her in all directions. Nancy stopped in front of a passing flock of nurses as they guided a bed across her. She looked around in widening eyes. 

Forget the idea of indulging on pleasures, this place looked like it was in a state of Hell! 

A rushing nurse caused a plate of instruments to fall over a table while an injured woman screamed—bile began trickling from her open mouth. Nancy heard shrieks curling its way from various hospital rooms. She swore she caught glimpse of an elderly woman sitting up from her bed with her eyes all white as her hands tore away the tubes worming through her frail body. Nancy blinked, hoping what she was seeing was nothing but a figment of her imagination. 

It wasn't. 

A doctor whose arm was soaked in blood tried dragging a screaming boy whose tears were flung about from his constant flailing of himself from the man's grip.

_"Don't wanna shot,"_ the boy wailed, sounding dazed—he was lacking emotion behind the voice. _"Don't wanna get shot, hate needles, Pleeaaaaaaase!"_

Then Nancy saw him pull in the doctor's hand, spreading his teeth over the doctor's fingers. The kid bit off his fingers. The boy actually tore off his index and middle fingers! She drew back as blood came gushing from the opened wounds. 

The man screamed. "_No!_ What do you think you're _doing,_ you bastard! _No!_ It can't be! _Not my fingers!_" The doctor shook the boy's head away, causing it to slam into the hard floor. The boy lied therehis pupil and iris rolled up to form the blanking whiteness in his eyes. He was convulsing, twitching rapidly as the fingers stuck out from his mouth. Droplets of blood waved from the fingers as the boy continued to vibrate. The nurses came shortly after. 

Nancy began taking careful steps through the chaotic scene. The doctor was taken to ER, while the nurses carried the boy away on a bed. Nancy felt like she was about to vomit. Her body lurched itself over, while she kept it from coming up her throat. She paused for a second, staring at the ground.

Just a while ago, the place seemed so fine. It was actually peaceful. 

"Nina, are you feeling all right?" Nancy heard a doctor ask someone. 

"West" a light voice responded—must have been a nurse for all Nancy knew. "I'm not feeling too wellI think I'm coming down with the flu."

"Relax Nina," the doctor said, "I need you to finish the shift, you got that? I need as many people I can grab, because this place is falling apart."

"I'm scared, West, you know that? I'm so fucking _scared,_ what's happening here? Why are the rioters coming down here?" 

Nancy turned and looked at West. The handsome, but stern-faced man was holding the nurse in his arms. "They're not rioters, Nina," he said, "I know you have trouble believing me in this, but I'll have to tell you. People are calling them _zombies_, and the police are trying to hold them off for us right now."

"_What?_" Nina's expression grew terrified. "Please say you're not bullshitting me," she said while sniffing up a runny nose. "Please, West, _please_. You know how much you love me and—"

"I promise, I really _am_ sure about it. Just try to keep calm and I'll just—"

Nancy saw Nina throw his arms away from her. "Cut the _crap_, West! _You_ actually think I can keep myself calm after _this_ is happening to our city right now? You know everyone's already _dead_, West! _We're all gonna die!_"

Nancy turned and walked away from the estranged couple. She began to make her way down the crowded halls full of frantic nurses and yelling physicians. 

They were going to need backup for this operation. As far as Nancy was concerned, this whole incident involved more than just _The MeatHook Mangler_. She was to see Marcel and have them contact the Bureau _now_. After that, she'd guess it was all up to her and Marcel to restore order in this hospital. 

_Zombies?_ Her mind pondered the subject. _Zombies, how could that be? What the Hell was that West doctor talking about? Why wasn't I informed of it earlier?_

Nancy kept her observations true to her head. In the last few minutes, she wanted to know whether the images back there were actually credible to her own belief. She did, from her own eyes, see a boy chew off a man's finger, an elderly woman ripping the tubes from her body, and heard the word_ zombie_ mentioned from some of the personnel, didn't she? Was that the fact, or _Ripley's believe it or not?_ Shit, if she only knew. 

Nancy passed by a short guy who looked rather familiar. He was standing in front of a male nurse that stood more than a foot taller than he was. The volunteer had a large folder in his hand. It was the baldness in the boy's head that caused Nancy to recall his name. 

"Okay Duane, look," she heard Nathan Lieu say, "just piece it all slowly for me to hearjust _what_ is going on here? I mean, the place looks as if it's been hit by a storm or something. They gonna make us leave early or what?"

As Nancy passed the both of them, she heard Duane's voice fading from her as she continued to walk toward the elevators. "Nateman, I don't know, the news says the riots' have been fuckin spreadin all around Raccoon and"

_Great,_ Nancy thought. So it wasn't just the hospital that was being affected—it was the whole city she had to worry about. _Fantástico! _

Nancy felt around her legs and pockets, making sure she was carrying the extra clips of ammunition for her Glock. Three magazines and 18 bullets eachthat made a total of 54 bullets. Good. 

Nancy Garcia was gonna need _every_ single bullet for this occasion. 

20

"You know, Nathan," Duane said over Nathan's smaller self. "That one lady that just passed us by looked _damn_ _fine!_ _Shit, _now that's someone I wouldn't mine bucking till the end of time"

Nathan chuckled before trying to restore his seriousness. He looked over his shoulder and saw the Jennifer Lopez woman leave into the elevators. He then looked back up at Duane. "All right Duane, I'll agree with you on that one. I wouldn't mind doin some bumpin and grindin with the lady, but we got an issue to discuss."

Duane looked down at him. His face was excited, filled with some exhilaration for the strange things going on around them. "I know what you mean, Nate-dog. I feel yah, but you just gotta keep yourself cool on this. What's happening now is the highlight of my career, man!"

Nathan's casual look on Duane instantly became a glare. "Fuck the highlights, you just told me there were riots happening around the city this very moment, and they were spreading—"

"No _shit _there are riots—I just told you! Where the hell you've been? I swear, you've been behind that desk for too long—you don't know _jack-shit!_ The whole city's goin down, and you didn't even know!" 

Nathan's urge to speak died down. He looked at the ground for a moment, thinking over the whole situation. It just wasn't happening. No way, not the city he lived in. The riot was coming _here?_ Why, was it because of that damn contamination? He looked back up to Duane.

"So they catch _The MeatHook Mangler_, yet?" Nathan asked.

Duane shook his head. "The police said they already have a lockdown of where he's headed and everything. So far, they plannin on sendin some SWATs and a whole bunch of cops to handle it." 

Nathan's eyes widened. "Oh _damn_," he said. "And what about the riots?" Nathan added. 

"What else? They got the riot cops out there handling it right now. Northern Section was hit the hardest, while Northwest, South and our very own Central Section should be hit soon."

Now Nathan was beginning to get angry. Why wasn't Duane actually _worried_ about this? What was his problem? "Duane, so you telling me, we have a contamination making everyone sick, a serial killer out there killing everyone, and the cops on their knees tying to hold back on rioters _coming_ this way?"

The excited face of this jolly brown giant smiled while he nodded. 

"So you gonna be happy staying here wearing that smock of yours while the hospital gets run down by the rest of the city?" 

Duane's gleeful face nodded again. "I'll be getting hella commission for it."

Nathan sighed. He then felt Duane's hand pat his shoulder.

"DudeNathan," Duane said, "you hella trippin, man—it's not gonna be that bad. We got a fine line of cops backing the city. You know this whole thing is gonna end before tonight. It's like that one time when hella people were scared from that forest fire a few months ago when something out there exploded, right?" 

"I heard it was some house that did," Nathan replied, "A mansion, I think."

"Whatever," Duane scratched his head. He had been scratching it since Nathan met up with him. "Anyway, that was just a small thing like this one—it was over the next day. I know the shit-thing happening today will be like that one. So don't worry, man. Don't let it get to your head." 

Nathan saw Duane beginning to scratch his back once he finished with his head. 

"Duane—dude, you ok?" Nathan asked. "You been scratching yourself for hella days. You get some skin rash or something?"

He brought his hands away from wherever he was clawing at and looked at Nathan. His enthusiasm was gone. "Nah, man. I just been hella itching since this one bitch bit me a while ago."

Nathan grew surprised. "What? For reals?"

"Yeah—she just bit me for no reason. I was out for lunch, and this one blonde chick with these fat-ass titties came up and tried takin a piece of my arm. _Hella_ crazy."

For the first time, Nathan was seeing a sense of worry in Duane's face.

Duane broke out a smile. "Yeah—well anyway, speaking of some crazy, but lovely women, how's nice Sofia doin?"

Nathan didn't feel like changing the subject—he wanted to hear more about the buxom lady who bit him. "Ohshe's all good," Nathan said reluctantly, "she said hi,' by the way."

A small laugh echoed from Duane's mouth. "If you see her down there, tell her to suck it,' cuz she needs some."

Nathan smiled. "_Man_ Duane, you and your wrestling philosophies."

Duane laughed again, filling up the chaotic air with some of his happiness. "Know what, Nathan, I wonder how she's doin down there without youshe probably giving everybody the wrong directions."

"I'm not so sure about that," Nathan said. "She kicked some big guy's ass this morning—you should've seen it!" 

Duane chuckled, his head pulling back to nod at him. "Yeah, I heard. Was some white guy, right?"

"Yea, it was. So I don't think she's having that much trouble now."

Sofia DelaCruz threw herself below the lobby desk. She crouched under the marble surface the same way she did when that psycho attacked them in the morning. Her back was leaned against the inside-front portion of the desk. Her tazer and pepper spray were clutched in both hands. The low droning of her stun gun was the only thing she could hear. 

And that scream a few minutes ago was still in her head. 

Sofia remembered hearing it about a half hour after Nathan left to do his pharmacy orders. Its pitch was high, screeching in that bloodcurdling way to make it sound like it was _right beside her own ear._ She turned her head in the direction she last heard it from. If she was right, then the sound must of originated from the hallways near the Meditation Room. And those hallways were _so close_ to the lobby. 

_"Nathan"_ her soft voice whispered, _"where the fuck are youI need you here _now._" _She began to shiver to herself. The surface of her skin rose in steady goosebumps causing chills to brush over her body. She then looked up toward the bottom of the desk.

The panic buttons. _Yes, the panic buttons!_

She brought herself up and hooked her forefinger over the red buttons. She jammed her fingers in to press at them rapidly. Sofia then backed away into the desk and sat with her arms hugging her bent legs. PBX should call her any minute. They always did whenever they pressed the buttons. They did that in the morning when the crazy guy was here. After they called, the guards usually came. They always made sure everybody was okay

But this time, they didn't call back. Sofia felt like crying, but she held it off.

After a few minutesaccumulating to _several_ minutes, she continued to sit there in that same position, waiting for that possibility that the ground floor would call her. The telephone remained silent. Sofia gave out a whine. She was sounding like a little girl. 

_What am I supposed to do?_ she thought, _shit! I don't know what to do! What's going on around here? Why does this have to happen _now!_ Why couldn't it happen some other time when I'm not in this fucking shift!_

The faint sound of glass breaking rattled into the lobby from another corner of the hospital. Sofia heard gunshots after that—they were muffled from the distance. And screaming—men screaming as if they were dying from something trying to tear their throats open. Sofia shot out from under the desk and grabbed the phone sitting on the desk. If they weren't going to call her, then she'd best call them. She ripped the handset from its resting place and pressed it to her ears. There was no dial tone. 

There was nothingshe heard nothing. _The phone lines were out! _

Sofia bit her lip, placing the phone back as her hand shook its way down. She then slowly ducked under the lobby desk, bringing herself to that same position of embracing her legs. She had it—she was definitely fed up. Her eyes then sharpened, beginning to shape themselves to look more like tiger eyes than a sad girl's. So the fuckers out there wanted her to get _nasty_. That was fine. _Nobody_ fucked with Sofia Delacruz. The only thing in her world that had the right to associate the word _fuck_ with her was her boyfriend. Everything else can _kiss her nice ass_. 

She heard another sound travel into the lobby, but she didn't care anymore. There was no need to care once a girl_ got bitchy._

Her hands picked up her two weapons. Her right clutched the spray, while her left held the stunner. Whatever came to duck under the lobby desk for more than a look was gonna get _the bitch treatment_ from Sofia herself. Uh huh. She knew that, and she was capable of that. She was sure that white boy in the morning was already aware of _that_.

She heard more gunshots. This time it sounded like it came from ER.

Sofia grit her teeth together, showing them out in a sneer. The _buzzing_ crackle from her stun gun came to life, splitting its way into her ears. She felt her soft hair spreading to cover her back. It poured over her shoulders, feeling soft and comfortable.

Unfortunately, at this time, her hair was the _only_ thing about her that was soft and comfortable. Everything else was made to kill. 


	5. Part I : Raccoon City (21-37)

Part I 

Part I : Raccoon City

21__

4:33 P.M., Northeast Section—the place where nothing happens. 

The yellow tickets flapped from the gentle breeze. Their crumpled noises traveled though the streets from where they were attached to the cars' windshields. A whole row of them resting in the street had bright slips under the blades of their windshield wipers. The breeze caused the paper slips to occasionally slap against the glass surface, uttering a faint _fwap-fwap_ every now and then. 

Leon Kennedy pulled a blade back from one of the wipers. His other hand positioned a ticket so that it could be pressed under the windshield wipers once he let go of it. He then released the black slab and let it slam onto the windshield. The wiper made a dull _thud_ against the thick surface. 

"I guess that makes this gimpparking violator number 98," Leon said as he scribbled over the ticket. He shot out a glowing smile. "And that makes me one step closer to promotion—one small step for mankind right there, ladies and gentlemen." 

Leon sighed and brought an arm back to wipe the sweat off his forehead. Surely Irons could've done better into choosing a more boring assignment for Leonhis poor soul had been writing parking tickets all day long. So much for _patrolling_ the Northeast Section. Writing tickets was one thing, but doing this shit for nearly six hours had rough consequences on the educated mind. That dumb-fuck Irons was gonna pay. 

If Officer Kennedy was to write tickets for his whole career, then he'd most likely end up in the nearest mental asylum. Really, he would. Nobody spent years in academy so they could spend their remaining post-graduate life writing parking tickets for half the fucking city. 

But for one day, there were sure _a lot_ of cars being parked longer than they were supposed to. Now, why is _this_ happening, Officer Kennedy? Any sort of answer or explanation? Why do you think people would just leave their cars here while you just walk around and stick those slips everywhere? Why, Leon,_ why?_

Leon turned his head around to search for any answers to his self-doubt. 

Nothingthere was absolutely nothing. The streets were empty. He was alone here. Alone with the sound of flapping tickets and that cool brush of wind. 

"Now I'm _really_ gonna kill Irons once I get back," Leon muttered to himself. Not only did the fat chief give him the most boring day of his lifehe placed him in one _creepy_ area. Geez, it looked as if everybody died and Leon was the last man left standing. He shook himself from the thought. If someone was watching him that very moment, that person would probably assume Leon was shivering to himself. Actually, that person would be right. Leon _was_ shivering a little. Who wouldn't? Leon hadn't seen anybody since he arrived in the Northeast Section. The place was beginning to remind him of a scene ripped straight from Stephen King's _The Stand_. 

Leon finished tallying the total number of fines he gave out. Once he was finished with the cars down Fairmount Drive, he was able to remind himself that police work, no matter how boring it was, still remained an _American_ _privilege_ after all. He smiled at the number before him. 100 was a good number. Hell, it was a _great_ number. 

"First day on the job," Leon grinned before his accomplishment, "and I score the R.P.D. a centennial homer for my grand debut." He laughed out loud. _I guess the day's torture wasn't so bad after all,_ Leon thought happily to himself. 

A crow perching from a lamppost above cawed at him. It began cawing violently as if it were trying to regurgitate something, rather than making its usual noise. And the crow was hugeLeon practically saw it as a large, menacing black spot from where he was standing. It continued to scream down at him. 

Leon began taking careful steps up the street from where he came from. He gave the bird a welcoming smile. "Well _hello_ there, big bird," he said in an almost mocking manner of speaking, "are you enjoying this day the same, bittersweet way I am?" 

Something was trying to make its way up the crow's throat. It was actually trying to regurgitate after all. A small lump pumped its way up the bird's neck, causing its body to widen and contract. It suddenly began pulling its head back, shaking as its mouth spread apart to show Leon the darkness behind its beak. 

Blood trickled from its mouth. It dribbled all over the lamppost. 

"What the" Leon cried out.

A whitish object spilled from the crow's gaping mouth. It rolled away from the crow, dropping from the lamppost. It was coated in a thick layer of shifting blood. The syrupy liquid broke away from the object, creating dozens of droplets to accompany its fall. Leon watched its downward journey. 

It came down on the asphalt, impacting against it in a splattering _smack_. The object jiggled as it lay in a puddle of blood. Leon looked down at it in disgust. 

It was an eye. A human eye. 

Small tendrils of veins streaked from its side as Leon continued to stare down at it. The iris was brown in color, staring up from behind its layer of jelly and cytoplasmic film. The blood around the eye glistened in a hellish, fiery color. The searing heat that was roasting the city caused the reddish material to thicken and dry up on the frying-pan surface of Fairmount Drive. 

"Why you sick lil birds," Leon scowled, his head moving to focus on the crow perching above. "Now that's why we people don't like you crows. Cause you're all never hesitant to scare the living shit out of us!" 

The crow sat there, still perched above. It squawked in return. 

Leon sneered at it. He threw his body upward hoping to scare away the animal. It didn't move—instead, it kept its beady eyes locked on him. Leon shook his head. He didn't have time for vomiting crows. The Raccoon City Wildlife Department—or whatever they were called—usually took care of these things. Leon had no part in birds swallowing peoples' anatomies. Even though he'd probably regret saying this, Leon could care less about abnormal crows and pigeons picking off the dead. It didn't matter whether he saw a sparrow coughing up the withering remains of some guy's testes or a jackdaw hurling a set of ovaries. Leon simply didn't _care_. This wasn't part of his job, he'd be sorry to say. Although it _was_ a rather disturbing thing to lay eyes upon (especially being alone here as he was), there was hardly anything he could do about it. Although Leon did wish he could pluck some lead rounds into the freak for spitting that eye at him, but first thing's first. Leon's gotta finish his own _all-American_ job before trying anything insane, just as his patented name bore. 

"I'd love to end your misery, big bird," Leon said as he walked off. "But I guess that's somebody else's job." 

He walked back to his carwhich was around a hundred more cars down the street from where Leon was strolling down. 

A hundred cars, each with a yellow slip attached to it. Leon chuckled evilly.

It was, and it really was, _Leon Kennedy's first day on the job_. 

Let's face it, _69_ was a magic number. Forget 23. Leon was no baller (and he wasn't black either), and that number was only truly magic to _one person_, and everyone knew it wasn't Leon Kennedy to begin with. So out of the top of Leon's head there was the beloved 69, the wild, _maaaad crazy_ number that perfectly defined himself. Not to be stealing any patents or anything, as far as he was concerned, there wasn't _anybody_ that truly owned the number 69. The number had a general appeal—it didn't belong to just _one_ person, it belonged to whomever chose to characterize with it. 

And Leon Kennedy had it. It was his own magic number.

"HQ, this is 0069—post 3," Leon spoke over his intercom, smiling over his given number. "Completed my patrol of the Northeast Section, over." He then let go of the button on his handset. He waited for confirmation. 

Leon continued to wait. His smile dissolved. There was no response.

"HQ," Leon repeated, "this is 0069—post 3." He let go of the button, waiting for some reply. 

"I hear you just _fine_, Kennedy," a harsh voice crackled through the communica-tions system. It was Irons. No other voice sounded more depressing. 

"Irons," Leon said, "I'll be proceeding to my Secondary AssignmentI'm awaiting your confirmation." 

"You do that, Kennedy," Irons replied. The tone of his voice made him feel uneasy. Not only was it the tone that made it all seem awkward and out of placeit was the fact that Irons was now in charge of the station's communication. Usually, it was the lovely voice of the operator that kept contact between the cops, but for this reckoning moment, it was the grating voice of Irons. Leon bit his lower lip. He soon found himself gnawing on it as he thought about the whole situation. Something was up.

Something, just _something_ was going on behind Leon's turned back. 

He slammed the mic back. The coiling wire hanging loosely from the machine swayed back and forth. Leon stood beside his car, resting his arms over its top. He looked at the buildings and scanned the deserted streets. From a far distance, a silver can rolled across the sidewalk and bumped against a store wall. It had a red-white symbol labeled over it. Leon could guess it was a container for the new _Umbrella Cola_ from how it was designed. It stayed in place, canceling out all potential movements the wind might force it into performing. 

_So they need me to interrogate The MeatHook Mangler's wife_ Leon thought, puzzling over the nature of the assignment, _they want me to talk to Mrs. Birkin while the rest of the R.P.D. has the Mangler himself pinned down' at the barn. Tell me Irons, doesn't this plan sound like a bunch of bullshit, or is it just my crazy side speaking?_

_It's a bunch of bullshit,_ his mind acknowledged. He nodded. 

_Thank you_. 

But Leon had a job to do, no matter how phony this all sounded—he was, by the way, finally doing police work for a change. This was the thing he wanted to do ever since he was kid watching John Wayne blast away those _baddies_ on the monochrome television. So he guessed nothing could stop him from being a part of the law. Yep, he was_ the law. Leon Scott Kennedy was the motherfuckin law!_

"Annie Birkin," Leon said as he twisted the ignition, "baby, here I _come!_"

He leapt into his _Caprice_ and rolled awaytoward the Eastern Section. 

22__

5:45 P.M., Central Section, Raccoon City—Midtown Area. 

A black _Mustang GT _roars through the street, unwary of the pedestrians rushing away from the car's path. The driver is accelerating at more than a hundred miles per hour. And the driver is dead—his carotid artery slashed by the passenger right beside him. His blood is spewing from the gash in his neck. It splashes against the windshield to produce a vivid red. 

The car is headed for a barricade of R.P.D. squad cars. 

The group of officers, some sergeants and lieutenants—all with families and children—pull out their firearms from behind their police cars and open fire. The bullets fired from their standard issue pistols penetrate the _Mustang's_ windshield. But the car doesn't stop. It continues to zip by, unscathed by the fiery handguns. It rushes closer. The men scream and turn away, shouting orders in the bright sun. The black car smashes into the thick wall of cars, shelling away fragments of aluminum and glass all over the Midtown Area. The _Mustang_ explodes. Its bursting flames spread forth and engulf the fleeing officers. They holler from within the bulbous mass of inferno. Their remains incinerate and disappear from the chaos happening around them.

It is contaminating the city—this chaos—it continues to infect and wipe the sections of Raccoon City. It is behaving like the virus Umbrella created. 

__

_"The situation has become far too insuppressible for city officials to handle!"_ Ben Bertolucci shouts from a 48" Mitsubishi monitor. His face is practically pressed against the camera broadcasting his message. It fills the large television, making his small head a lot more massive than it really was. The broadcast is becoming grainy; the image begins scratching its way toward snow at certain periods as it deteriorates.

_"Northern, Central, Northwest"_ Ben begins to yell into the monitor. There is a large crowd behind him, screaming almost louder than he is. _"All areas excluding the Northeast and Eastern Sections have been in state of _total_ chaos! All citizens are encouraged to stay indoors until the problem is resolved. Concerning the contamination, there have been reports of zombies' and strange creatures lurking the corners of the city. Chief Irons of the Raccoon City Police Department has assured officials that these manifestations' are of no concern and such rumors are not true! _

"While Irons has confirmed that these reports are untrue, we advise everybody to stay indoors until clearance has been issued. This is Ben Bertolucci, for KE—" 

Suddenly, someone—or something—from the crowd seizes Ben by the shoulders. The dark figure from the deteriorating image lurches its face onto Ben's neck, chewing through it. He screams. From the jerking camera, the bloodcurdling scream of Ben Bertolucci can be heard from the blur caused by the camera's rushing motion. 

More figures join alongside Ben's struggling body. He gets sucked into the crowd as if it were the vacuum of space. They are biting him. They are tearing him apart.

_"Godammit, somebody—somebody help me! Norm, get me out of here!"_ Ben hollers from the developing swarm around him. The riotous noise of the streets continues undisturbed. _"They are k-k!"_ Ben struggles to squeeze the words out his mouth, which was already beginning to gag up with blood. _"They arek-killing—Me! Rhona, Fred—a-anybody, help Meeeeeeeeeeee!" _

A voice is heard from off the camera. It is the cameraman's voice. He seems to be sharing Ben's fate. 

_"Get the fuck off me, you freak!" _

Moans, then wailing from off camera. 

_"Shit, shit! I said off—OFF I SAID!"_

The focus on Ben Bertolucci's flailing limbs break away, twisting off to dive down into the bloody concrete. Another sound rushes forth from the television. This time it is not a voice making it. It is 

_Squirming__the sound of clothes tearing_

Then a scream that ends with a bubbling gag.

On the television, the image then slides away to focus directly at the sky. The man had fallen back with the camera still in his hands. The dense noises in the street continue. And the broadcast continues as well. 

Something red leaks into the camera's lens. The liquid rolls away, flooding half the screen in a nightmarish crimson. 

The image then blips to the vertical, multi-colored bars of the technical difficulties setting TV stations always display. The monotonous _eeeeeeeee_ sound now emanates from the TV's speakers. It'll stay that way for the rest of the day. 

A few feet from the 48" _big-screen_ _TV_, a corpse sits on the couch watching the ill-fated broadcast as if he were still alive. The light from the screen illuminates the bald man sitting in the partial darkness of his house. His eyes are still—they haven't blinked for hours. A warm _Miller Draft_ is clutched in his right hand while the remote rests in the other. A small stream of saliva runs from his mouth. 

The _eeeeeeeee_ from the television continues. 

Under the dead man's tilted head, a large hole is bored through his stomach. Blood streaks from all directions where his abdomen burst. It trails through the rest of the house and leads into the kitchen, where a hiss could be heard. 

That hisswas a Breeder's hiss. 

23

"Pharmacy orders!" Nathan shouted once he stepped into the Nurse's Station. The place was surely Hell turned inside out, but Nathan had to do this. He was getting community service hours for this. Really, he was—no joke! 

A blonde woman of about 5'6" turned around and gave him a cold stare. She then threw a reluctant nod and began rummaging through the basket. "Aid Spray here," the nurse said as she conjured a white canister labeled with a small cross. It was enclosed in a plastic bag. Nathan came up and widened his folder so she could drop it in. 

The woman paused before letting the spray canister go. 

"Now I want you to be very careful," she said, staring into Nathan's eyes, "I don't want you touching this—it is a highly sensitive substance, and it could be easily contam-inated. A couple of these were distributed by Umbrella a while ago. I need you to be _very_ careful, understand?"

_What's with the lady,_ Nathan thought,_ she doesn't trust me with this thing? So it's because I happen to have a shaved head, ain't it? I have that thuggish look, like I'm about to rob everything, nice._ "Yeah, I understand," Nathan replied, "I'm not _that_ curious, lady, don't you worry." 

The woman smirked at him and dropped the spray can into his pharmacy folder. "Good, because I meant what I said," she said. 

Nathan closed the lid to his large folder. After three floors, the weight in the paper container was beginning to show some progress as Nathan felt its increased mass. "Okay then, thank you very much," he made a small wave. 

When Nathan turned around, another nurse stepped in front of him. She stopped him, looking down at his shorter self. "Excuse me," the nurse commanded, "what are you doing here?" 

Nathan's weary face formed a puzzled expression. "Pharmacy orders—"

"_No_, you _are not_ supposed to be here," the 5'7" woman interrupted, "don't you see how dangerous this place is, now? The hospital is in emergency protocol—we are having biohazards, harmful substances, threats, fires—you name it. We can't afford having volunteers wandering around this atmosphere, you understand?"

"So that means I can go home?" Nathan asked enthusiastically. Finally, the long day was to end and sleep seemed closer than ever. 

The nurse sighed. It was one of those frustrated, well-didn't-you-know kind of sighs. "_Yes!_" she cried out. "Why weren't you called to go home any_ sooner!_ Godammit, the last thing we need here is more lawsuits! Get your fanny back home, that's an order!"

Nathan's eyes widened. "What, really?" 

_"Yes, yes!"_ she clamored, her face nearly turning red. The way she said it sounded as if she was in the middle of some steamy sex. The words squeezed from her sneer at him. "Get out of here," she finally said, calming herself down. "Just leave, I'll be happy to cover you if the Service League bitches about your absence, now _go!_"

Nathan nodded slowly, his eyes still holding that look of awe. He then brought himself to stroll down the fifth floor hall, ignoring the pandemonium around him. He kept his eyes focused to the ground, looking thoughtfully at the smooth surface. 

All this time, he could've been sleepinghe wasn't even needed here in the first place! Although they did call him here for emergency reasons, he had the chance to leave early! What the Hell, why didn't he do that? He had a test tomorrow! 

Or, because of what was happening to Raccoon, _was_ there a test tomorrow?

A smile came up on Nathan's face. _I guess I might be liking this city-wide chaos after allif school's gonna be canceled the next day._

A hoarse voice interrupted his peace. "Get outta here, you fucking chink!" it cried.

Nathan turned his head to where it originated. It was from one of the patient's rooms. He stopped, peering inside with his narrowing eyes. 

"The fuck you lookin at, you little man!" the old woman snarled. 

Nathan raised his eyebrows at her. "A dirty little bitch," he answered while bringing his face to scowl at the old hag. What was an aging, leather bag doing in this hospital shouting racist remarks? 

_"Oohh" _she hissed back, her eyes prodding at Nathan's sense of security. 

Nathan continued to stand there. He watched the frail woman, as if she was some threatening beast bent on shredding his sanity. A gold necklace ran around her neck. Connected to the necklace, and resting itself on her wretched chest, a large key with a spade formed at an end glistened to catch Nathan's attention. The spade was bluish in its crystalline form. Besides the old lady's hideous face, it was the huge key that grabbed Nathan's attention the most.

"C'mere, you dirty little rat" the woman started again, "come on, I'll kick your little yellow ass!"

Nathan chuckled at the pitiful woman. 

"Oh, so you think you're hard now, little manwait until you get a load of _me!_"

Her tongue came slithering outit was at least _a foot long._

Nathan stepped back, disgusted by what he saw. Her tongue, purple and dripping with saliva, coiled around her cheeks, leaving a shiny film for Nathan to puke off of. It then moved around—covering almost a foot's distance around her head, and slid back into her mouth. Her mouth opened, cackling at him, chuckling with glee. 

A nurse appeared at her side. "Mrs. Hubert," she said in a controlled voice, "I'm going to need you to take some of these—they'll help you sleep better."

_Yeah, _Nathan thought with growing abhorrence, _you better sleep, you old witch. Best do the world a favor by choking on those pills while you're at it. Shit, I thought that guy from _Kiss_ had the longest tongueguess I was wrong. _

He walked off toward the elevators, clearing the old bitch from his mind. 

Once the elevator doors opened and he stepped in alone, Nathan began to wonder how Sofia would react to the fact that they could leave now. 

_Oh Hell yeah!_ she'd probably scream at him. _Hell fucking yeah, Nate, I'm going home! I'm outta this shithole, and you know you won't be seein my nice ass here again!_

Nathan laughed to himself. Sofia was so moody. One moment she was scared and helpless—the next, she was some butt-kicking vixenand then later on she was some sweet, caring girl that didn't mind being "a little too comfortable" with others. Funny this way of hersit was actually so funny, it was beginning to get a bit scary.

The doors to the elevator closed. Nathan was standing in there alone. 

The floor numbers displayed above the doors _bleeped_ in reverse chronology. Nathan felt his weight shift as the elevator sank its way down. He was headed for the ground floor. He wanted to drop off the folder at the Pharmacy before heading up to the Lobby, where he'd finally tell Sofia the great truth. Then after that, he'd happily go home and leap into his bed. Leap into his bed and close his eyes until the dreams came to take him away for the next few hours. 

Butbut something happened.

It was like a cue for the elevator. Once the lighting display above the entrance reached the panel representing the Ground Floor, everything went out. Everything meaning _everything,_ including the lights. _The lights were out._ That also meant another thing Nathan learned earlier from Mr. Chau. 

The power was out, and the auxiliary generator was unprepared for this. 

"All personnel," the operator's voice waned through the elevator's speaker, beginning to die out from the power shortage, "please remain calm as power will be restored shortlyAll personnel"

"Ah _shit_," Nathan muttered to himself in pitch darkness. 

24

Claire's eyes squinted at something approaching her from down the road. She brought the flat of her hand to shield her eyes from the sun above. She kept her solid gaze focused on the dark object resting beside the highway. It steadily grew in size, developing from a speck in her vision to a form she was glad to be seeing. 

A welcoming laugh bellowed from her stomach. Thank God for trailer trash!

From the burning sun, and without it being a disappointment made from a mirage, the trailer sat under the reddening sun—its _being there_ a part of Heaven's grace. Claire smiled. Finally, something that didn't place her any closer to the clutches of death. She could only now hope the folks in there had any gas to spare. Usually, they did. Many people who lived in trailer homes were (as far as her experience told her) generous to a certain degree. Just don't try asking those rednecks and beer bellies. 

The sun was already starting to set, it was transforming the sapphire sky into an orange-red. Soon after the horizon, the sun will disappear, and Claire will be left alone in the darkness. And by then, she'd better do her job before Bartowen was to come. She better, because at this point of her life, mistakes were all she needed to get herself killed. She had the world's most feared crime boss to prove that. 

And this idea of Chris paging her _years later_ in need of her help better be worth her trouble trying to get into Raccoon City, just as it is worth for her life to be spared from _El Diablo._ Chris and his affiliation with that **S.T.A.R.S.** bullshit had best not make her drag her ass hundreds of miles to receive nothing but _"Sorry Claire, I paged the wrong person—Did I really say all that stuff about me needing your help? Ha ha, when was that? Well anyway, I'm sorry, but I gotta leave now—I have an assignment involving a government conspiracy. I'm sorry to leave you here alone like this. By the way, it _has_ been a while since I've seen you Claire, nice to see you again, bye!"_

Shit, if she knew Chris was to say that once she saw him, then she should've taken the time to pack a gun before leaving for Raccoon. Who knows to what extent her brother could have in pissing her off in that royal, sibling-pain-in-the-ass fashion. He seemed like a master of that, concerning his part on remaining silent for a few long years while she continued to miss him. Did he really—and did he ever—truly miss her? Claire would later regret bringing this up again, but before she met up with Ethan, she had loved her brother so much, that whenever a wish came up for her to ask for, she always wished for Chris to come backshe really did. She missed her brother that much. 

And it took him _years_ to finally respond. _Years_, dammit. _Years!_

But Claire was always forgiving when it came to Chris. She forgave him for so many little things that happened when they were young. Things like some of the toys he borrowed and never returned, to the number of dirty pranks he sometimes pulled. Among this, she had plenty to apologize for herself. There was always that one time she accidentally caught his hair on fire right before his Senior Prom, and the moment when she almost killed him with the _Smith & Wesson_ while he was teaching her how to fire it. Either way, they got along well for siblings. For brother and sister, a distant observer could always take them to be girlfriend and boyfriend sometimebut that person would've been dead if they ever began spreading rumors. Claire and Chris were a bit close for siblings, but they were never close in that _mushy_ sort of way. They hardly ever displayed affection in the form of hugging or kissing. In fact, they tried avoiding that kind of contact as much as possible. It was like some communicable disease they could spread between themselves. Hugging was extremely rare, while kissing was considered taboo under all circumstances. Even though the rules seemed rather harsh (people had to let their emotions out sometime), they were happy around each other. Her relationship with her brother barely felt like a brother to sister thing, instead, it felt more like _she_ was his brother, instead of her being _his_ sister (orvice-versa). So reluctantly, she did want him back simply because she loved him as a brother. Although his reaction to their apparent reunion had better be a satisfying one—it better, or else she was to have one Redfield to slay before dawn. 

The trailer sitting ahead of her grew in size. Claire began to frown at its appearance. It had that trashy look, like it came straight out of a shantytown. So it was pretty much a large, curved sheet of metal. Normal, average people never owned shit like this. Claire sighed. There was only one answer to this puzzle, and it was _trailer trash rednecks and Southern extremists_. Shit. 

Claire had her rundowns with those kinds from her stay with the family during her Moto Cross days. Living in one (one _much_ better looking than this one) herself, Claire never really saw the idea of living in a trailer home as something to be ashamed of. Really, all you needed to do was get a nice-looking one, and made sure it was clean enough to be comfortable to live in. She remembered hers to be clean enough to outdo some of the more _luxurious _houses from across the street. _That_ definitely shut the snobs up. While they had so much room to spare, Claire had everything they had (and dreamed of) all compact and portable along with it. She awed them the same way a small-breasted girl suddenly _developed_ in front of a guy that once ignored her. It was fun to do that.

Until the bastards with the sloppy Southern accents came. 

There were numerous times when Claire and her Moto Cross team found themselves in danger of being assaulted by those low lives. Personally, to Claire, those types always gave people who lived in trailers a bad name. Every morning, their dirty little kids came out and picked on poor Teresa. It became clear to Claire she had to put all responsibility into protecting Teresa, even though she was Rose's child. But it was a lot easier than it sounded. Simply, all it took for Claire to do was to hold those shitty brats at gunpoint while threatening them to never try that againor else. Doing that usually silenced them for about a week as they cried to their washed-out, obese mothers saying that "the big girl across the street threatened to kill them." Ha. Claire soon began to enjoy it. It was funny watching the runts run as she pulled out Chris's old Beretta. Although Charlie had warned her about the potential consequences a while ago, Claire continued them. She especially loved using Henry's _Colt_ handguns on Mondays, then on Wednesday switching to Charlie's ferocious knife before happily pulling out the crossbow for the weekends. Those little kids deserved to be traumatized. After all, they could've done the same to Teresa, who had done nothing to provoke them in the first place. 

Soon after the scare tactics, the kids retaliatedwith their parents and siblings. With increasing numbers, the rednecks came at night and picked fights with the rest of the Moto Cross family. Claire suddenly found herself target of teenage sluts who were furiously jealous of her "pretty face" and that attractive appearance they were to never achieve during their lifetime. The situation quickly escalated to a point where it became some kind of trailer feud going on between the portable homes. Charlie and Tony had their nights with some of the truckers, as Claire, Ben, and Kristy usually ended up sending a whole horde of them to the hospital. Nobody was ever killed during those conflicts, which was only marginally good. Claire wanted a handful of them dead. 

Except instead of having the rednecks killed, her whole family was slaughtered

Slaughteredby Bartowen, her present boss. 

Claire sighed as she neared the trailer ahead of her. She shook away the thought of Bartowen and the tragic deaths. It was no time to cry about them anymore. She had to pull herself together if she wanted to live any longer. 

The trailer was now close enough for Claire to see its details. She stopped a few yards from where it sat on the side of the road. Her eyes scanned it, noticing every imperfection the heap of garbage had. She grimaced.

It was shaped like a 50s toaster—its chrome exterior was showing its age. Marred by weather, it lost all its reflective quality as rust began crawling from each of its corners. The scratched windows also had its sign of _wear and tear_. The yellowing curtains behind them were barely visible through the frosting scratches. Mildew, spots of moss, and algae sprouted from under the vents. They were blackening the rubber lacquered around the windows. On the air conditioner, the mesh frame around it was coated with white calcium deposits. All in all, it was _definitely_ a place Claire didn't want to wake up inside of. 

She walked up to the door, noticing the bumper stickers pressed on the back fender. One of them read: **DON'T LIKE MY DRIVING? Dial: 1-800-EAT-SHIT_._**

Claire nodded, pressing an amused expression from her face. She turned her head and saw another thought-provoking sticker. This one said in stenciled, red letters: 

MY KID KICKED YOUR HONOR ROLL STUDENT'S ASS!

Claire shook her head, smiling to herself. She drew her breath out from the heat. The sun was scorching her legs and neck from behind. All this time she was engulfed in the same dry heat liable to kill off any normal person. The whole feeling of it made her wonder whether _anyone_ could actually live in this tin box of a home through _this_ weather. To be able to live through temperatures like this took a lot of courageit was possible to _die_ in there! Claire knew that the air in a trailer could get _really hot_ without an air conditioner. That was a definite fact, since she noticed that the dirty trailer she was standing by didn't have the air conditioner on

That was strange. Why didn't the person in there turn on the air conditioning? It would be suicide to sit in there without anything to cool yourself on. 

Claire pulled the meshed door away, leaving the wood door before her. "Hello!" Claire shouted, beating against the door, "anybody in there? Hello!" 

No answer. 

She brought her fist back and repeatedly beat the door again. "I'm sorry to bother you right now," Claire said as her arm pedaled through the movement. "But can you please open the door? I need some help" 

Still, nobody repliednot even a noise from inside. 

A sigh exited from Claire's mouth. _Maybe the guy's a lot saner than I last assumed,_ she thought, _he probably left his home for a better place. Or, maybe he's afraid._

Claire grunted. She beat the door again. 

"Can you please open up! I need your help_ right now!_"

No reply. She blew out from her mouth, sighing again. 

_If nobody's here,_ Claire wondered, _then maybe I can just break in and try to grab the gas before they get back. I know, I know, it's a bad thing, but nobody's here to find outand besides, everyone knows I can be one bad girlI've stolen shitloads before._

Claire then fingered the lockpick from her breast pocket. She held the metallic pieces in her fingers as she kneeled to focus on the gold doorknob. She slid the metal wires in, working her way around the mechanism of the knob. Her left fingers with the thin piece prodded the slit as the other hand with the precision release moved around to twist at the lock 

_Click!_

Claire smiled, pulling her trusty tool out and clutched the knob to test it. It turned, just as she expected it to. And like a gift from Heaven, the upper bolt that kept the door from opening wasn't activated. She was _actually_ in luck. 

Her hand brushed back a lock of hair as she opened the door. It _creaked_, as the door swung from its rusty hinges. Claire peered inside.

Hot, dry air rushed into her eyes and face. It blew out from the opened door, searing her senses. Claire shook her head away and threw her body inside.

She shouldn't have done that. 

Maggots. Flies. They were everywhere. And that sour, musty smell... 

Claire's mouth dropped. Her face grimaced, quickly drawing her arms to press against her face. My God, it was _horrible._

Hundreds—no, _thousands_ of maggots were squirming all over the dead bodies strewn around the trailer. A whole cloud of flies swarmed from the sight of Claire's break-in, causing a thick _mass_ of them to bellow up from the corpses. The mass shook in the air, heading towards her. The sound was terrifying. It scratched through the air, humming violently. Claire closed her eyes and ducked her head into her arms. 

She felt them zipping around her exposed legs—thousands of them, crawling through her arms and hair as they rushed to fly through her. Their tiny legs, like bristles from some metallic brush, scraped across her skin. Their faces—each having a pair of those red, bulging eyes, pressed along various points of her skin. Claire grew sick. She turned around, eyes still closed, and leapt through the door where the sun still shone through. The itchthat _terrible_ itch they made whenever they crawled around her

The ground came up on her, impacting against her boots. Claire brushed away at herself, making sure that her body was free from any flies that could've crawled under her clothes. She shivered. 

_Toughen up, girl, they're only a bunch of bugs,_ her thoughts whispered. 

Claire felt dizzy, like she was about to puke. "Yeah, only a bunch of bugs," she said to herself, rolling her eyes before shaking her head. "It's easier said than done."

But Claire did have to keep her mind straight—she had to get to Raccoonand she needed to reach that destination _soon_. This opportunity was one in a million—how often did she find a loaded trailer with dead bodies? She'd best not blow this one before it got any worse. Claire took a deep breath and walked up to the trailer and held her breath before stepping back in. She looked inside once more. 

A man with overalls stared at her with wide eyes. His mouth was open, gaping at her with a maggot-filled face. Small gnashes across his face—some purple and yellow with decaying pus—had colonies of them pupating and feasting on his remains. His whole mouth was covered with a pile of struggling white maggots. In fact, his entire body had them twisting and coiling into him. They moved around him like possessed rice. 

_Remember, they're only little bugsthey can't hurt you_

Dozens of flies were copulating beside Claire's boots. Pairs of them were attached together, buzzing as they danced in the air. The females began to bloat with the bursting offspring under their bellies. Claire swore she saw at least a dozen flies try laying their eggs on her thigh. The slime oozing with pods of young larvae poured onto her skin. The moistened warmth touching her was petrifying. They wanted to eat her too. Just like the men in this trailer. They wanted to just lay their curved, white eggs over her face, hatch and tickle her as they nibbled on every part of—

_Clairestop being paranoidthey're just fliesjust stupid little flies_

She closed her eyes, nodding slowly. She swallowed hard. Claire shook the flies from her legs, slapping at them as they flew off her. She struck at a few of them with the back of her hand, causing some to ricochet from the tin walls. Claire brought her gaze to focus back on scanning the interior now. 

A telephone caught her attention, but its cords were shredded. Claire tried to spot something else. Something redsomething plasticsomething that held gasoline

Like that large container sitting adjacent to that heater_yes!_

Claire continued to hold her breath as she stepped over the maggots wolfing the bodies. She reached over and grabbed the large container of gasoline. Its weight felt like at least three to four gallons under her hand. She pulled it free and got the hell out of that infested trailer! 

Once outside, Claire sucked in the fresh air, savoring at how good it smelled. People often took for granted how great fresh air was. Life was beautiful. It was so beautiful without those godforsaken flies and maggots! 

ButClaire Redfield still had a long walk back before filling up her bike. 

And she better walk fast.

25

Nancy hugged the walls, gun drawn upward against the side of her face. She stood there in the corner of the hallway branching to Marcel's room. Nobody was here, not a living soul. And the power was out. 

But the shouting and the outbursts from behind the double doors continued, echoing into the silent hall Nancy was standing in. The sounds were louder than they were before. Panic, wailing, screaming, and glass breaking made up the sounds pushing their way through the thick door and into Nancy's ears. They were muffled, but they still seemed so _loud_. Nancy took shallow breaths. Her eyes shifted, cutting short glances across the area. Her eyes soon grew accustomed to the darkness. 

The phone on the counter grabbed her attention. She ran towards it, tearing away the handset from where it rested. She placed it next to her ear. 

No dial tone. 

Nancy threw out a disgusted expression, grimacing painfully. She struck down on the phone, hoping that it might bring the phone to work again. She strained her ears to search for any sign the phone could still work. 

Nothing. 

"_Fuck,_" Nancy hissed under her breath. She slammed the handset down and pushed the phone away. She turned around. 

Marcel's room was right before her. From the darkness, she could make out the silver plate on the white door marked: 4 WEST, ROOM 14. Nancy paused, her grip on the Glock tightened. _If he was in there,_ she thought to herself, _why is it so quietcould he still be in there, waiting for me even though there was some power outage in this building? _

Nancy took careful steps to the door. Her left hand floated carefully toward the knob. She turned it, peering through the widening opening she made as the door slid open. _Something is wrong here,_ she thought,_ this power outage was never supposed to happen—it was unplanned for. Something is definitely wrong with this whole plan. Somebody must have fucked up between the days because something is not right around here_

She pushed the door, letting it swing on its own. Nancy had both hands readied on her gun. She watched the white door sweep to the right, unraveling what she either wanted or did not want to see behind them. Her heart suddenly leaped. 

Marcel was dead. His head was smashed into the bed, flattened in a peach-colored, reddening mass. So was the rest of his body. 

Nancy gasped, her eyes growing wide. From the darkness, the white around her iris caused a portion of her eyes to glow a brilliant white. Her hands suddenly grew numb in shock. All of a sudden, she felt chills racing through her limbs as the light bursting from the closed curtains lit a portion of Marcel's distorted face. Nancy saw it and felt like screaming, but she held it in—_had_ to hold it in. There was no question whether or not the murderer could hear her. He was out there. 

_The MeatHook Mangler._

Nancy brought her gun up, forcing her eyes away from the mashed corpse on the hospital bed. What was going on? She thought the R.P.D. should've been out to handle the killer once he was occupied at the barn. What the hell was he doing here? The last transmission she received from Marcel was at the most, several minutes ago. There was no possibility that the Bureau and the R.P.D. could miss him heading down _here_. During that little amount of time, they would've _informed_ her and Marcel already. How the Hell was it possible the killer was _here?_

Nancy heard something crash from outside the room. It sounded like glass. 

_Maybe it isn't _just_ the MeatHook Mangler were dealing with here_, she thought, her mind bouncing from one end to another, _has it ever fucking occurred to _anyone_ that there could be more than one killer in the city?!_

FootstepsNancy heard footsteps coming from the hall. They were approaching her position. It was _behind her. _If she wasn't to turn around any faster, then whatever that came bursting from the doorway would have her in no time. Her clutch on her Glock .40 tightened. She felt the rough grip pressing against her palms. 18 bullets were in the clip. And she wasn't afraid to use any of them. She spun around, bringing her aim to fasten on whatever came in through that doorway. 

The silhouette of a man dressed in a lab coat stood beneath the threshold. He had a large pole in his right hand. 

"F-B-I!" Nancy yelled. Her left hand shot out her badge. 

The man stood there, frozen in place like a statue. His dark eyes continued to stare at her. He then began to walk forward. 

"You're wanted for arrest—don't you fucking move! _Drop_ your weapon and—"

The man brought his pole back and swung at her. The large pole was aimed to slam vertically over her head. She dropped her badge. 

Nancy dodged it, throwing herself to the left as she raised her firearm at the _Mangler_ (Or so she thought so at the moment). The pole missed her and struck the ground, tossing fragments of the tile in the air. She pinned her gun's foresight on him and pulled the trigger—twice. The Glock bucked from her hands. It lit up the room as it spat the bullets, leaving the spent casings to spill from the top of the pistol. As the two bullets pierced the man's chest, sprouting cascades of blood, Nancy was able to see his shoulderand was able to confirm that it _was_ William Birkin she was firing at—_The MeatHook Mangler_ they all said he was. 

But his right shoulder was _way_ too large to be normal__It was _massive!_ What the Hell was going on, it looked nearly twice the size of the other one!

Whatever it was, the bullets didn't seem to hurt him. All it did was throw him back a few steps. Nancy heard him grumble as he continued on her again. She didn't hesitate. She raised her pistol again.

Nancy fired five more shotseach of them impacting against Birkin's abdominal region. He shook in rapid successions from the roaring gunshots. Blood began gushing from the areas of impact. It drenched his lab coat in growing circles of red. 

He was still alive.

The pole missed Nancy's face by less than a foot. It struck the wall, caving it in before sending bits of wood and plaster spinning across the air. Nancy fell to the floor, keeping her aim fastened up on the immense image of Birkin standing above her. She unloaded her clip on him, firing frantically while the gun made its shattering reports through the room. All eleven shots caused parts of Birkin to burst as each lead bullet tore through his flesh. He rattled while the stream continued to push him back to fall onto the floor. Nancy grit her teeth in rage. Even after the bullets were spent, she continued to pull the trigger, causing the empty chamber to sound out a _click! click! click!_

_He was still alive. _

Nancy watched in horror as the killer slowly rose to his feet. 

Her breathing increased, creating shallow puffs of anxiety and panic. Nancy thumbed the magazine catch, causing the spent clip to slide down the butt of her pistol. It fell on her legs, laying there—it was unused garbage for now. She looked up with hopeless eyes while groping her waist for the next magazine. 

He was raising his right arm to strike at her again. _He did that so quickly. _The pole's shadow crossed Nancy's terrified face. It rose above Birkin's head as he winded up for the next blow. 

Nancy palmed the new clip into the gun, slapping it into place. The slide registered the new bullet, sounding out a metallic _crunch._ Nancy extended her arms to aim up at Birkin's face. _Hit him in between the eyes,_ her thoughts clamored, _hit em where he won't come back to!_ With the jerks of her thumb, Nancy triggered all 18 bullets of her pistol straight into Birkin's eyes and mouth. 

Ordid she?

The pole came down onto Nancy's forehead, throwing her head back. She felt the back of her head hit the wall somewhereit all felt like one _big_, damn headache. Her vision of Birkin standing there above her helpless body abruptly blurred. 

_That wasn't The MeatHook Mangler_her last thoughts confirmed. And she was right. Contradicting her last confirmed identification, it wasn't Birkin—the killer they were all searching for wasn't Birkin. _It was somebody else._

The _Mangler_ used hooks. This one, William Birkin, used a _pole._

Nancy Garcia made sure of this when she saw it smash down her head a second time, blackening out the world around her. 

So much for everything. 

26__

6:08 P.M., Central Section, R.P.D. Station—S.T.A.R.S. Hallway

"Hey maaaaan!" Casey shrieked while tugging at his trapped arm. It was fastened by a pair of handcuffs wrapped around a railing connected to the wall. _"Get me outta these fucking cuffs! I ain't the man you want, go after The MeatHook Mangler, man—go after him! He's the true fuck-head out of all of Raccoon, maaan!"_

"You shut that mouth, Casey," Willie commanded, drawing a quick finger down on him, "or I'm gonna leave you here with all those freaks that just came in here a minute ago, _YOU_ _GOT THAT?!"_ Willie felt like exploding in this boy's face the minute he began screaming when Eds cuffed him there an hour ago. 

Casey shuddered, beginning to whimper. Tears shone in his eyes as he shook his head. He didn't say anything, nor retaliated in any way. 

What a pathetic, little bitch.

Willie sighed, it was one of those _pissed-off_, I-dunno-what-the-fuck-I-should-do-with-you kind of sighs. "Casey" he calmed him, pulling out the keys from his pockets. He was actually _thinking_ about unlocking the cuffs from the bastard. He had to, it was _hell_ hearing the boy scream. "Man," Willie continued, the keys jingled in his fingers, "you better promise to straighten up that act of yourssince what I'm plannin on doin right now is like a Christmas present and a New Year's Resolution all rolled up in one joint _you_ give me a changed version of yourself, and I promise you that you'll keep this present' for life, you got that boy?" 

"I will, Officer Burrow," Casey nodded. "I will, man."

Willie then forced the key into the little bitch's cuffs. He'll regret this, but at least his ears will be spared for a lifetime. Damn, that boy had one _nasty_ shriek. It sounded worse than Mariah Carey's highest scream pumped up six octaves. 

The handcuffs released themselves from Casey's arm. Willie left it hanging on the railing as he bothered not to take the whole thing off. It swung a little, banging against the damp wall while forming a pair of C's on the opened end. 

"Now, no more assaulting them teachers," Willie spoke over Casey once he was done standing up. "The moment I see your delinquent-ass with one againI swear little man, you're gonna feel that same pain by _me_, you understand?!" 

Casey gulped, growing pale. "Anything, Officer—anything, man." He then shook himself, rubbing his shoulders. He grimaced. "Can I get outta here, maan? This place's scarin the shit outta me."

Willie looked around, checking the halls to see if any more of those _things _were sulking around. He nodded. The hall was empty. He looked back down at Casey again, shaking his head. The teen delinquent was scared—_terrified_ of what was happening, and Willie could see it in his eyes. By now, his parents must have been dead alreadyor become one of those _things_those, zombies. 

"All right, you listen to me," Willie ordered, "I'm gonna get you to a place where you'll be safe in this stationI dunno _where_ it is exactly, but I'm gonna try my best to get you there."

The kid nodded—he was actually complying. Perhaps there _was_ hope for the next generation. Willie had doubted it was possible, but here he had living and breathing (along with _white_) proof such a possibility existed.

Willie pulled out his radio, flipping the switch before squeezing the button. "Eds," he spoke through the mic, "Eds, you there?"

The static was thick, but audible enough for Willie to make out Ed's reply. _"Been here for 15 years, Wily B., what's the problem?"_

"I got the kid up in the S.T.A.R.S. hallway, I'm checking if it's clear down there."

A grating noise caused by Ed's sudden exhale blew through the speaker. He was laughing. _"That oughta teach the little turd!" _

Casey flinched from Ed's voice, as if ashamed. "That's the cop who cuffed me."

"Yeah, well you deserved every bit of it," Willie turned his head and spoke over him. Willie hadn't planned on letting that comment leave his headbut deep inside, he was snickering like crazy. Little Casey was about to get the other end of his crime turned against him by justice itself (or what was left of it). 

Casey's face flushed. "Hey man, I thought you were supposed to serve and protect—"

"Well I'll only serve and protect that stanky ass once you _shut up!_"

Ed's distinct laughter echoed from Willie's mic.

_"Allright, Will! Let the runt have it!"_

Willie snickered a bit and lightly tapped Casey' shoulder in almost the same fashion he did with Trisha Lockney's ass a few hours ago. "Chill, my little one, have patience," he said. 

The face worn by Casey suddenly became a saddened one as he shook his head. "Stop making fun of me," he cried, almost sobbing, "I don't wanna die hereI'll be a good boy, but justman, just please get me home. I don't wanna die here"

Willie shook his head. _What a pathetic little bitch_, he thought over again. "Casey, if you just quit acting like the little bitch you are, I'll try my best to keep you alive—other than that, if you keep up that pansy shit, then I'll have to end your misery myself."

Casey remained quiet after that. 

Officer Willie Burrow then continued on into talking through his radio. "Eds," he said, "so is that East Office clear down there? I need that place while I bring _little shit_ here down."

_"Garrett has the area clean, move in there whenever you're ready."_

Willie nodded in satisfaction. "How's the situation with Eliza?"

_"The mayor's lithe daughter is all cozy down here with me. I've got Wilson and Jordan at my side in case anything happens—who you got to back you up?"_

"Casey's ear-splitting shriek," Willie smiled, throwing an eye at Casey, who did nothing but glare back at him.

Behind the static, Eds chuckled lightly. To Willie, it seemed as if the old man's optimism was already worn down by what was happening to the city. Willie sensed this from the sudden change in Ed's tone. It just sounded as if his time had finally arrived.

"We're all gonna make it through this," he said, trying to ease the low feeling Eds was beginning to suffer from. "I'm sure about that, _Mr. Ed_this whole thing will be over soon. I know of that."

_"Yeah, you try telling me, Willie,"_ Eds replied mockingly, _"the radio's out, the TV's gone—Hell, I don't know whether or not I should start pissing my own pants any minute."_

Willie froze. "_What_ did you just say?"

_"I said I don't know whether or not—"_

"No, you said the TV's _gone?_" Willie cried out. "Eds, you know what that meansthat means we gonna be missin the rest of that playoff, man! Tell me, is this situation gonna get any worse or what_damn_." 

Eds began to chuckle again. It was good raising the old man's spirits. All of it was a good thingthat is, until Willie himself had to change the subject. 

"I know this may not be the most enlightening thing to bring up, butare you afraid? This whole thing that's happening aroundyou afraid of what's goin on?"

_"Ha, and this coming from the guy who's just told me everything will be over soon"_

Willie smiled. "Hey, I was just trying to lighten things up. But really, how you feel about this whole thing, Eds. How you feel about this riot-_zombie_ thing?"

He heard a sigh crackle from the radio. _"To tell you the truth, Will, I'm scared—not just scared in that I'm afraid of death' kind of scaredI'm scared that the end—our end—has just begun. And worse of all, there is no turning _back._"_

"What you tryin to say? I thought you'd be optimistic—"

_"Will, quit trying to hide it,"_ he spoke hoarsely through the speaker. _"I haven't received any note on the cops in the streets nor the barnI have no idea what the Hell's goin on with all the walking corpses and that other shit as well. What I _do_ know for sure is that not all of us are going to make it out here alive. And _that,_ I'm afraid, is one of the only things I'm actually sure about right now."_

"Eds," Willie began to shake his head, "You have to believe—"

_"Will, you know it already. It's over, everything's gone down to shit. Now, don't try to lie to me, but personally, do you think this whole thing is going to end happily?"_

Willie took some time to respond, beginning to look up. He then thumbed the button. "With my helpof course," he said enthusiastically. 

_"With your help, you'll get us all killed,"_ Eds replied.

Willie couldn't tell whether that was a jokeor a serious fact.

27

The afternoon rays peering from the hills caused the sweat from Leon's face to river down and drip off his chin. They fell onto his thigh and soaked a dark patch over it. If it were any bigger and centered around his crotch area, it would have looked like he pissed his own pants. 

Orit could have also looked like a sudden ejaculation from his last hard-on. 

Leon clawed at his balls, scratching at it without shame. Damn, was the heat itching his scrotum. It felt as if an ant took a bite out of the wrinkled sac, causing a slight _prick_ to electrify his nerves. The pair of boxers he had on didn't necessarily help to lessen his itch either. _They're being ruthless to my manhood,_ he thought, grimacing. He continued scratching away at his crotch while keeping his left hand on the wheel. 

"Man, oh man" Leon groaned, beginning to think about sex and the heat baking his car. "This heat is starting to" he suddenly chuckled. "Starting to make me horny—_yeah_, it's fucking turning me into some sexual predator!"

Leon laughed to himself, his voice reverberating from the interior of his car. What he needed now was a woman on top as well as one to lay onto. Yep, that was the formula. It was kind of like having a shoulder there to lean toexcept you've got the female anatomy swallowing you up with those welcome lips. And it didn't matter what race was behind that pink opening. Either it be Black, Asian, Caucasian, or European—it didn't matter. Blonde, brunette, big ass, or humongous breasts—it was all good. Leon had a wild side, and this wild side was something he didn't mind letting outespecially if it was before a fine honey yearning for him from the window of the _Motel 6_. Leon smiled. Police life was beginning to turn out to be that dream he always wanted

The Eastern Section welcomed his passing car with silence and rolling newspapers. Not a living soul in sight. Soda cans, styrofoam cups, and small toys littered the streets. Nobody was out talking to their neighbors, watching their kids play out in the street, or even frolicking with their beloved pets. The place was absolutely _dead_. 

It was deadeven for the residential area Leon was looking at. 

The street his car passed had old houses as well as new ones brightening up the neighborhood's leaden appearance. Leon turned his head and saw one house blackened from a recent fire. Out of most the houses, this one seemed to catch Leon's attention the most. Rust stains discolored the sides of its exterior, causing a flamed decoration to lick downward from the edge of the roof. The aged, yellow tape wrapped around the house was enough to explain that whatever happened to it, was at least a few months old. Some of the tape was torn away to reveal a small entrance into the scorched home. Looked as if a lone visitor wanted to check the place out. Before the opening, there was a neatly- matted field of dead grass. Leon swore he saw something that looked like a rubber wrench (actually, it looked pretty real) lying in that frail lawn. 

Then Leon saw something else...which was _a lot _more noticeable than that rubber wrench. A cavernous opening across the other side of the house caught his attention. It was _huge_, gaping with that serrated look around its edges—like the aftermath of an explosion. Either someone in there was experimenting on C-4 explosives, or the guy felt like lighting the gas valve to his entire tank. Total destruction was the first phrase in mind when Leon took this view in. 

"Shit happens," Leon commented, shaking his head. "If all of that turned out to be some cooking accident, then _man_ that chef's got some explosive recipe." 

His car made its way down the street, passing through the older houses until the neighborhood began filling up with the newer, brighter-colored ones. After a few minutes of driving, the area suddenly became high-class—with the streets all clean with fresh tar and concrete. Lawns—all green, and adequately watered—grew beside each house as Leon drove past aisles of them. 

"Now houses like these I wouldn't mind living in," he said, whistling out in admiration. "Talk about _Pleasantville_Oh yeaaah." 

It was another few minutes until Leon saw the Birkin residence. It was located at the edge of the streetand the edge of civilization. Across the distance behind the house, a dried-out plain of bad soil stretched for miles into the hills and where the horizon would be. Leon could make out some green patches of vegetation sprouting over the crusted surface. He could also see the outline of a dead tree sitting in the middle of the expanse. 

Leon neared his car toward the driveway and parked his _Caprice_ smoothly—it was perfectly aligned. What a way to make a first impression—Leon was _king_. He was going to rewrite the image of the rookie cop. 

Okay, that might've sounded a bit cocky there, Leon thought as he smiled. _But baby! I'm a cop! I'm actually doin all the crap I've been dreaming about! I'm actually gonna live this shit! _

Leon's smile widened when he pulled out his trustworthy VP70. His right hand fit the plastic handle perfectly, adding to all the comfort a _maaaad crazy_ cop needed. Leon holstered it to his belt and looked up toward the entrance of the house. 

"Annette Birkin, wife of _The MeatManglin Hooker'_" Leon said to himself with glee, "it's about time you and me share a nice, final round of _Jeopardy_—except for this time around, you're the contestant, and I'm Alex Trebeck." His eyes then narrowed. "And our topic iskillers and meat hooks." 

28__

6:24 P.M. The Barn—6 miles North of Raccoon City

The MeatHook Mangler is loose again. The serial killer whom society classified as William Birkin was off in his latest killing spree. Today, (the very same day _Umbrella_ would wrap up its experiment) the killer had already added to his tremendous body count. He finished a great deal todayhis total equaling 32 victims slain, slaughtered, and maimed. Ironically, the total number matched his age, and he smiled from that coin-cidence. But _The MeatHook Mangler_ was far from finished. He had one last chain of victims to go before moving on. And this one was to be his grandesta _coup de grace, _you might say. It was to involve the R.P.D. 

Sure, there were innocent officers protecting the infected streets this time being; sure, there were brave, decorated sergeants and lieutenants alike giving their lives into comprehending him. But there _was_ a selected few the killer did not like. Those were the few that turned against the justice system; they were the few who were corrupted. Corrupted by _Umbrella_. The killer did not like those few. _The MeatHook Mangler_ wanted those few _dead._

_Deaddead. _

He was to rip them to shreds if he could_tear_ them apart ligament by ligament. His meat hooks and sickle-shaped blades made the job easier. He would run the barbed tips through their soft flesh—he liked to start at their ears and continue until it reached the other end. After that, he would pierce their eyes with his fingers and feel the warm fluid run down his fingers as they screamed. Screamed in agony. Screamed in _fear_. Screamed as the thick, red liquid flowed across their cheeks like rivers of red ink 

Then he'd hang them out to dry, decorating the city with his wrath. _Yesss_

The look of their faces all locked in screamstheir intestines pulled out to stretch around their necks. _Yes_he'd strangle them with their intestines.

Kill

His teeth grit together. 

_RevengeDestroy Umbrella._

Kyle Somers unsheathed a set of his curved hooks, reflecting a ray of light into his eye while savoring the warmth provided from the sun outside. It was cold inside the barn. It was also damp, being cool to the touch.

Good, the bitter atmosphere brought him more attuned to his rage. After all, he wasn't to stop at _Umbrella_Kyle wanted more. Kyle wanted to destroy everything. He wanted to end the existence that created his suffering. The world was to feel the endand he was going to be its herald. Like the god _Mercury_ delivering the message of death to the world. He couldn't stop at _Umbrella_he just _couldn't_. The terror would begin again if he stopped there, it would grow back like the freshly-cut tail of a regenerate lizard. _Umbrella_ would not be the end. They were not the end to the whole menace. Kyle knew the solution, and it was not a very pretty solution. The menace in the world were _people_—they created nothing but the destruction. They were all like _Umbrella_. _Umbrella_ infected the worldlike mankind. Kyle wanted to end it all. He wanted to purify the world he was born in. Purify it by ending the human race. 

If the Kyle that had died a few months back ever came to see the intentions of this new Kyle at workhe would have done everything in his power to stop him. 

But he couldn't come back nowthat Kyle was dead. _Umbrella_ murdered him. 

_And Umbrella will pay_._ The world that came to create it will pay as well._

But first things first, the R.P.D. he wanted dead will be dealt with _now_. He knew the remainders of them were waiting for him here. Chief Irons told him that. Irons had the whole plan set up. Everything was plotted from _Umbrella_ using the authority of the Chief. Kyle was the latest murderer posing as his nearly identical cousin William Birkin. _Umbrella_ ordered him to eliminate any key players that would serve as a direct threat to the experiment. Doing so would provide the media and the uncorrupted officers time to waste as they ignored the suspicion that would lead to the experiment. And at this moment, they were to gather all the remaining threats of the experiment to this barn and wipe them all out. Soon, the corrupted SWAT team would enter the barn and destroy the remaining R.P.D. from inside. After that, the experiment code-named _Contagion_ would run its final order through the release of the Tyrant specimens. The rate of death would then be measured. The experiment would go as planned.

Or would it? _Ha._ Kyle Somers had some of his own plans in mind.

He first ignored Irons' order by refusing to eliminate the Rookie cop Leon Kennedy—there were other businesses Kyle wanted to be dealt with. A contradiction in ideas was present. Irons wanted the Rookie dead; Kyle wanted _Umbrella_ to perish. The result ended in the annihilation of the scientists down in the Hospital Labalong with other murders he was grateful for. Kennedy would survive for the time being—there was no significance in his death for now. He was to die from the experiment anyway. There was no escaping the T-Virus. Along with thatthe new G-Virus was loose as well.

Kyle Somers laid out his blades on the table. He neatly assembled an armory of scalpels, hooks, knives, and other utensils over the table. The tools filled the tabletop, leaving no room for anything else. Kyle strained his ears and heard more squad cars parking outside the barn—their multi-colored lights flashed through the crevices. 

_"Step out with your hands behind your back!"_ the megaphone from outside blared. _"We know you are in thereif you do not choose to comply, we will use force. There will be no negotiations, step out with your hands behind your back!"_

Kyle ran the tip of his meat hook alongside his sharpening block. The sound that it gave out rang into his ears with _slick_ satisfaction. He smiled. 

The sound of a large truck arrived. Kyle peered from a small crevice on the wall and saw a small band of darkly-dressed men break out and close in toward the barn. They were armed with assault weaponsmost likely MP5s and others. The letters SWAT were written over their black vests. Kyle smiled again.

_The end is near,_ he thought over, smiling. _The end is near_

He pressed the tip of his meat hook against the sharpening block in his left hand. He tightened both hands, bringing his arms to shiver as he added the pressure in between the tip and the block. With one sliding movement, he let go a bundle of shimmering sparks to shower over and disappear onto the table's surface.

His saviors had arrivedand they were to be his bait for destruction. 

29

Leon held his breath before the door. _All right Officer Kennedy, _his thoughts pondered, _what questions do you have in store for our lovely contestant? Will it be, Question **A:** "Ma'am, noises were heard last night from your neighborswas your husband fucking you really hard, or was he just busy hangin up new collections of a rather _beefy_ body count? You tell me, _bitch!_ I'm a copand there's no bullshit there! Don't you look at me like that! I am the law, and does this look like _The People's Court'_ to you? Hell nooo it isn't. Right now, you're on _Death Row_, baby. Wrong answers will only get you closer to that lethal injection, so tell me what happened!"_

_Or Question **B**?_

"Mrs. Birkin, I understand that your current relationship with your husband has been quiteshaky,' I must say. Can you please detail the latest events on what happened so that I can assure your safety? Doing so will only be helpful in serving to protect you, Mrs. Birkin."

Leon thought over the questions. Of course he _had_ to do Question **B**. Question **A** seemed a good thing best reserved for his upcoming _Cops_ episodes (if he was to get any). Yeah, that was a better idea. 

But he still liked Question **A**. 

"I guess today, I won't be squeezing answers out of this lady," Leon said to himself. "I have to make her comfortable before letting her spit out those details."

Leon chuckled as he felt the breeze blow at his hair. Since the afternoon back in the Northeast Section, the breeze had been growing in intensity. Guess Leon could now call that breeze windinstead of a _breeze._ Get it? Wind instead of a breeze!

_Leon,_ his inner voice called out, scolding at his last pointless observation,_ you stupid dumbass! Get your mind straight and finish this assignment! _

Leon then nodded before scratching his head. _Pointless thoughtsyeah, pointless thoughts_

He stopped at the door and knockedbefore beginning to bang at it. 

"Hello, ma'am!" Leon hollered like a dying farm boy. "This is Officer Kennedy of the R.P.D., I'd like to have a word with you! Please open up!"

As if Leon hadn't noticed before, he found the doorbell and pressed it several times. The muffled chimes from inside made its way into his ears. He was hoping to get that woman's attention. Leon waited for her response. 

After a whilethere was nothing. No response. _Nada. Ziltch._

Leon sighed. He brought his arm back and rapped the door again. This time he was hitting it with enough force to shake the windows. 

"Mrs. Birkin!" Leon barked, "If you refuse to open this door, I swear, lady, I'm gonna break it down and come after yah! This is Officer Kennedy, you have one minute before I bust in and arrest you!"

Nobody came to open the door. 

_That's it, _Leon thought to himself,_ if that bitch doesn't wanna open the door for the lawthen I'm gonna have to do some _unlawful entry_. To act up on me on my first day on the forcethat's gotta take one big fuck—_

The door openedslowly. It opened by itself. 

A small gust of wind flicked some of Leon's hair. He backed away, wide eyed, staring at what caused it to open. He looked at the knob.

The bolts fastening the door were broken through—not by Leon's intensified knocking_but something else._

Leon took a deep breath as he drew out his pistol, holding it so that the barrel was facing downward. He backed himself beside the door, silencing himself. In the position he was in, the door was now to his right as he held down his VP70 with straightened arms. He then neared his head toward the door. For some reason, he was expecting something to rush out that doorway adjacent to him. 

Leon examined the wooden slots where the bolts were supposed to slide into. They were smashed through. Splinters of the wood were splayed forth from where they were broken from. From the looks of it, somebody must of beat Leon to the bounty. That somebody forced his way in though the door and went insidenow the question is, how long ago did this event occur? Was it a minute ago? Last night? 

Shit, it could've been anytime during the day. 

Leon sidestepped until he was at the edge of the entrance. With his left leg, he swung his foot around and kicked the door open. He then spun around and burst through the doorway, gun drawn up and looking down the hall for any targets worth pumping some lead into. Nothing. 

He was standing in a sunny hallway leading into the living room. To his right, the entrance to the kitchen was there, with nice tiles and pots placed around their respective places. Leon kept the grip on his gun firm and easy. He quietly stepped into the kitchen, scanning around with his pistol. His eyes shifted around as well. Amongst the silence Leon just stepped into, he saw the clean counter and the silver sink before him. The dishes were stowed away within the cupboards; the table had no food or stains on it. A large, forest-green bottle of _Palmolive_ sat at the corner of the sink, looking unused. The glowing digits on the dishwasher winked at him. The place was _clean_. There was nothing, absolutely nothing here that could catch the attention of a watchful cop on assignment. 

Except for whatever just moved in the corner of his eye.

He swung toward the movement in the living room, eyes widening to where he threw his aim at. Whatever it was, it scared the hell out of him. The white thing in the edge of his eye bulged, seeming to come forth and rush toward him. Leon readied his gun at it and prepared to pull the trigger.

He paused, staring at it. He relaxed his trigger finger.

The thing—or the white curtain swaying from the opened window—waved outward and feathered down at him. The wind outside caused its surface to ripple along its edges as it floated around the area it was confined to.

A sigh of relief exited from Leon's mouth as he kept his foresights aimed up at the curtain. He peered into the living room, continuing to take small steps through the area. 

As Leon took his careful steps into the living room, a faint sound began to break the dead silence. It interrupted the haunting noise of the wind and grew louder with Leon's approaching steps. He strained his ears to hear it as the wind continued to blow through the opened window. 

_Creak_

Leon stopped, swiveling his head to face its direction. It sounded like a rocking chair with old, dried out wood. 

_Creak_

It was coming from the other side of the living room—just around the corner from where Leon was sneaking across. He stepped closer, hearing the sound become more clear to his senses. As it grew louder, it began to get monotonous.

_SqueeeeeakSqueeeeeak._

Leon brought himself closer to where the sound originated from. He threw his backside against the wall beside the corner. Around that corner was where the sound was originating from. He tightened the grip to his gun. Whatever noise that was around the corner caused his heart to leapt out of control. It was as if some ghost was moving an object around...the ghost of Annette or something else. 

He shrugged the thought of ghosts aside and threw himself to pivot around the corner while bringing his sidearm over his head in a similar fashion to chopping wood. When Leon went through the movement, readying his trigger finger to fire at will, he stopped short, staring through the sights of his VP70. His eyes widened in terror. Leon swallowed hard at what his eyes observed beyond the small bump protruding from the tip of his barrel. It was Annette. 

Or what was left of her. 

Her body floated a few feet from the table she was dangling overshe steadily inched back and forth while uttering that cacophonous _squeeeeeak, squeeeeeak_ sound. Her body was supported in the air by a large meat hook. It was attached to a long chain coiling around the chandelier. From the position where Leon was looking at her, her body was slouched forward—forcibly bent that way. It was like that because of the meat hook forced through her abdomen. The curved hook began through her back while worming its way up from her left breast and into her right eye. The barbed end—syruped with drying blood and the strands of her hair—stuck out from the back of her head like a harpoon. Blood drenched her face, masking it with the blackening liquid. The liquid trickled down her legs and dripped onto the dinner table from the tip of her feet. Her toes became spigots of blood.

Leon continued to stare at the body hanging from the coiled rod. His arms were still held up to aim at her—he was simply too shocked to move them once he saw this. The fingers keeping the gun to his palms began to grow cold from the trembling in his hand. After a while, Leon shut his eyes and pressed his arm to his face as he turned around and bent over, shaking his head in horror. 

"Oh, _Jesus_" he cried out, trying hard to pull the image from of his head. 

But it was still there. 

Annette Birkin continued to sway in his mind while the hook coiled out her breast and into her eye. Leon hadn't noticed this at first, but he saw her intestines—_her fucking organs for crying out loud_—pulled from her throat and tightened around her neck. Her throat was lacerated. Flaps of the skin were poking from where the intestines were tied around her neck. Her mouth gaped down at him, locked in an eternal scream. Instead of sound exiting her mouth, bundles of intestines poured from it.

Leon shook his head again, hoping the picture would go away with it. It still wouldn't. It was permanently grooved to the surface of his brain. What he just saw that very moment was to live on and torment him without taking a vacation. 

"_Dammit_" Leon whispered, sealing his eyelids shut, "_why, out of all the days in my life, do I have to end up seeing _this_ on my first day on the job!_" 

He managed to regain control of his body and brought himself to lurch around the corner from where he came from. He rested his back to the wall and slid down to sit on his numbing ass. His head dropped to his knees. 

The MeatHook Mangler, he thought while feeling the weight of his pistol pressing on his shin. _Whywhy the Hell would he murder his own wife? How could he stand hoisting her up high over the ground like that?_

The answer was sitting in front of Leon's face! _Of course! _

"The guy's a serial killer" Leon sighed to himself, "of course he'd do something controversial, something all sick and twisted like his reputation is."

But there was something wrong here, Leon's mind prodded, _the whole idea of me coming down here has some dark ring to it that I don't like. I don't know what it is, but someone was here before meand he was probably waiting for me to arrive. He was expecting me here—knew I was to get here after he was done doing his thing. But for some damn reason, he didn't take advantage of it. He's not here._

The MeatHook Mangler was at the barnit was supposed to end right now.

The wind pushing at the curtains threw a gust causing the trees outside to make that _swishing_ sound. Moving before Leon's blank face, the white curtain bulged forward like the sails to a boat. 

He had to get out of here. Somehow, something eerie was happening that either involved the Chief or the whole city. The streets Leon patrolled were ridiculously empty; the important witness was murdered; the contamination was still running its course, and the awkward chase of that serial killer was about to end. What a day!

Leon left the house and walked down the porch toward his car. He felt sorry for the daughter having to live through this. Really, he did. She was the one that would probably end up in some intense counseling for the whole _psychotic family_ deal. But what was her name? He paused for a moment, trying to remember what the estranged couple named the kid. Was it Shirley? Cherry? Sally? _Cher?_ He forgot.

The intercom in his car was blistering from the heat. The rubber wire coiling from the handset felt soft and rather squishy. He stretched it toward his face. 

"HQ—0069, I'm gonna need a forensics team down here at Cammy St. in the Eastern Section, over." 

What Leon received in return was a distress call. 

_"All units,"_ the voice crackled through the speaker, _"repeat, all units on duty report to the barn outside Raccoon. Backup is needed. We will need as many officers here as possible. This order directed from the Chief shall be acknowledged under all circumstances, all units"_

"Well looky here," a smile began to inch across Leon's lips. The darkness of the day was already beginning to vanish. "Looks to me as if the R.P.D. needs a welcoming hand" He tightened the gloves in his hands and backed the car out of the driveway. He continued to smile, forgetting what he last saw in the house. 

Although when his eyes glanced at the bodies floating over Cammy Street, _Royal Residential Housing_, the cheery smile on his face disappeared. 

More bodies hung from meat hooks. What Leon missed when he first came down here was revealing itself before his very-stunned eyes. Like cattle from the slaughter-house, masses of corpses hung from every house down the street. They swayed from the rough breeze. The bodies stood out in Leon's eyes as dark shapes. Dark shapes that used to be part of the living. Leon bit his lower lip as he drove away, trying to keep his sanity from slipping into the darker regions of disturbing thoughts. Even though it was his first day on the force, it better not be his _last_ day also. _It better not be._

Leon's squad car rushed away toward the barn, eventually leaving Raccoon City and the nightmare that followed. He was unaware of everything—unaware of the recent city-wide blackout, the loss of all media and communication, the loss of balance within the city limits, and the orders of _Contagion_. He was reluctant to be unaware of it all. 

Beyond the Birkin household, in the vast plain stretching toward the mountains, the dead tree Leon initially observed sat crumbling in the distance. From the house, he was unable to see the bodies dangling from the gnarled branches. All this time, they were here. They dangled from the dead tree like Christmas ornaments. Meat hooks curved out from their bellies as they hoisted them up to dry in the sun. _The MeatHook Mangler _wanted it that way. The skin on some of the bodies pruned away to expose the pink flesh beneath. Their lips were pulled back to show their teeth in a fearsome sneer. 

A batch of crows perching beside them tilted their heads to study the wrinkled masses. A few of them cawed when the wind brushed their feathers. One of them leapt on a corpse's shoulder and pecked at his eye. Another two followed the first, clawing into his shirt and tore away his chest, bringing blood to flow all over their dark feathers. They then burrowed their beaks into the man's heart, feasting on it as they tore away strips of the ventricle. They cawed in the breeze before the sun sinking in the distance. 

By the time the crows finished with the corpse, the man's face was a gnashed mess of flapped skin and stringy flesh. They were hungry for more. The force that drove them to behave this way rested in their blood. The T-Virus colonized within the network of their bloodstream flowed abundantly, bringing out the evil contained from within their very existence. They left in search for better meat—to fuel and consume for the biological monster enslaving them. Their wings guided them through the breeze, bringing them over buildings and the dead below them. They wanted more. 

They wanted _live_ prey. 

30__

6:55 P.M., R.P.D. Station

Brian Irons walked up from behind Elliot Edward and shot him in the back. He did that so gracefully. Irons watched as his magnum threw Eds forward and slammed him onto the floor. The gun drilled a hole in him so round and symmetrical, he could look right through it and smile. In fact, as Eds writhed helplessly on the floor, clutching at his heart in a slow, painful death, Irons _was_ _smiling_.

Beautifulit was simply exquisite. 

He watched as Eds struggled with his life. The pool of blood surrounding the old man painted him red. After a while, the white skin of the frail officer soaked to a steady red. He sloshed in his own puddle while bringing his eyes to look up at Irons. The eyes were widened in disbelief, like a deer's eyes before a pair of headlights.

"There, there, Edward," Irons cooed coldly, "death is a pleasant cycle in life. There is nothing like the finale a soul undergoes before leaving the bodyit is as beautiful as birthif not more breathtaking."

_"You—you b-bastard,"_ Eds growled up at him, his mouth full of blood, _"h-how could you? I suppose you fucked the r-rest of the R.P.D. as well!_"

Irons stared down at him silently. His intentions were cold. He wanted to hunt them all down if he could—he had a change in heart for the remaining survivors. "Your friends at the barn are dead," Irons said, "they'll die in the same manner as I will execute everybody else in this fucking station. You think I'll stop _here_, Eds? Do you think_ me_, the police Chief of the R.P.D., will stop _here_?"

Eds did not respond. To be shot in the heart, the old man was strong to have lived long enough to speak. Irons stared at the dying officer. Eds began to gag on the blood in his throat, coughing down to speckle the white floor with it. His face began losing its color as his twitching stopped. He died with his eyes open. 

Irons stepped over his body, walking off toward the East Office. He would search for the mayor's daughter, Eliza. He was going to cherish this new trophy for his collection. He will kill everyone else if he has to. 

And nobody was here to stop him, oh yes, _nobody_. 

"_Seal the windows!_" Willie screamed from under the gunfire, "Garrett, _seal all the fucking windows!_" He raised his pistol at the zombie grabbing at him and blew its head back from where it came from. Willie then slammed the boards over the opening and smashed the nails through it, keeping it in place. 

"We cannot hold them back any longer!" Rick cried from behind him, "_Willie,_ we've gotta get outta here! They're all over the station, there's no way we can hold them back with the worthless police shit we have here!"

"_Look!_" Willie shouted from amongst the gunshots and screams. He grabbed Rick's shoulders. "We _have_ to buy ourselves some time so we can fix this radio and warn the others about the current situation—it's all a _set-up, I tell you!_ Everybody down at the barn is gonna die if we don't warn them this very second!"

Rick's eyes were filled with a confused mix of angst and puzzlement. He threw his hands to his head and screamed in frustration. "Willie, if we stay here any longer—we're all either gonna die or turn into one of those, those _fucking_ things—your choice: you wanna stay here and die honorably for the R.P.D.—that's fine with me, but _shit_, I won't be there to support you!"

"I wanna go home to my lovely fiancée as much as you wanna see your bitch, Rick, but if you want to be on the winning side, you _have_ to help me rally the rest of the cops to come down here and save our pretty assesyou in?"

Rick took a moment to reply. He eventually took a reluctant nod. 

The boards shattered above them, spilling strips of wood all over Willie's head. Arms began shooting around, probing for something to grab. Rick stood up and pumped the zombies back with whatever slugs he had leftthere were only two clips left. Willie continued working on the radio. For some reason, it wasn't picking up the correct frequency. He twisted the wire and splayed the other end to meet another, as he pinched at the circuits and sliced around the knobdid he really know exactly _what _he was doing? Nope. What Willie was counting on was a miracle, and that miracle was supposed to come at aroundnow. 

The radio crackled, brushing out the snowy sounds. It then sounded out a high-pitched screech of frequency that sounded like a teakettle's whistles. The grating crackle continued, causing Willie to lose his patience. He carefully shifted the wire around and heard the grating sounds begin to fadethen reappear again. Willie screamed in agony.

He brought his fist down on the radio, sending some pieces of its assembly to sail off and land on the floor. His bloody hands snatched up the radio. He pressed it against his face, hoping that it still worked and his message would get through.

_"Everybody!_" Willie yelled in frantic desperation, _"all units! It's a trap—it's a fucking trap! Move out from the barn immediately! All units pull back from the barn! The SWAT team is corrupted!"_

31__

6:58 P.M., The Barn 

The SWAT team opened fire on the R.P.D. Their weapons spitting bullets from inside the barn brushed holes across the cars and caused a few of them to explode. The MP5s impaled dozens of officers and brought a growing number of them to their knees. The SWAT inside kept their steady flow of fire consistent as they mauled the roof off of a squad car. They aimed with frightening accuracy, pinning down scrambling officers while nailing another with bullet after bullet from their machine guns. The gunshots rapidly bursting from their barrels rocked the barn with cacophonous roars. 

_"Move out from the barn immediately!"_ Willie's voice crackled from one of the police cars, _"all units pull back from the barn! The SWAT team is corrupted! I repeat, the SWAT team has been ordered by Irons to eradicate the rest of the R.P.D.!"_

Willie's miracle in making his radio work happened—but he was too late. 

Ty Roberts threw himself over the hood to his car, taking five bullets in his chest. He fell back behind his _Caprice_ and took in his last breath of air. In his own mind, he was acknowledging Willie's warning about the whole situation, and how it turned out to be right. It _was_ a set-up, the whole thing _did_ turn out to be too good to be true. He should of listened to Willie back at the coroner's house when he had the chance. 

The R.P.D. retaliated with the force of their pistols and revolvers. They ducked behind their cars and fired back whenever they had a chance. A few of them tried radioing for backup. Amongst that few, a couple of them had their heads split apart from the zipping bullets. Their blood splashed all over the windshields. A female officer screamed as she fell over, her face shredded from the flying glass. 

The SWAT team then tossed grenades at the barricade, each of them landing below a car. With a shattering flash, each car exploded in a fiery wall of flame, engulfing the screaming officers behind. A few of the _Chevys_ flipped in the air, landing on the pile of corpses laying dead below. The team—with only two wounded, and one dead—picked off the remaining survivors. They did that so easily. 

Kyle Somers watched with intent as the SWAT team sprayed their bullets outside. The noises rattled the barn, echoing into his ears as it sputtered and reverberated like the strike of a thunderclap. He watched the casings of ammunition rain forth from their weapons and pound the floor in silent _thuds_. The ground was already filled with hundreds of spent cartridges. Their gold-yellow appearance stood out from the darker complexion of the earth. Excellent, the R.P.D. was now dealt with.

Now it was time to finish off the rest of them—the corrupted portion, it was.

Kyle unsheathed a pair of hooks from the table and walked beside one of the SWAT members. The lost soul hadn't any idea Kyle was standing before him. He swung around and sent the barbed tip through his head—the horizontal swipe came in from one end of his ear and rushed out the other. The man screamed, his pleas muffled by the deafening gunfire; his hands shot up to his ears, which were dribbling with blood from the hook. Kyle picked up the machine gun the man had dropped and squeezed the trigger. He pointed it to his face, mashing the man's head into a pulp. Once the magazine ran dry, he snatched the pulley and hung the corrupted member using his other hook. 

"A message to _Umbrella_," Kyle hissed, "you have sourly dampened my life to its fullest extentnow I shall return my favors." He turned around and picked up a grenade and a few extra clips of ammunition for the MP5. He reloaded the gun. 

A bunch of them had gathered around one end, continuing to fire outside—they were unaware of the danger that lied ahead. Kyle pulled the pin to the grenade and tossed it into the center of the group. They gawked at the rolling projectile landing beside their feet, wishing to themselves that it wasn't a grenade. They then looked back up at him. 

"The _Hell—" _one of them shouted. And their bodies sailed into the air. 

The explosion shredded a few of them, ripping them apart while it splashed blood over the interior of the barn. Bundles of dust and other farm particles filled the air. A couple of them flew into a spiked bed of scrap wood, immediately impaled from the deadly myriad. They screamedscreamed in agony, just like how Somers wanted it be. Their blood painted itself over the walls along every surface around their vicinity. They clawed at the ground, trying to the reach for their weapons. 

Kyle opened fire on all of them. His grip on the MP5 displayed a lot more control than his earlier experiences with firearms. He now knew how to use them, and he was to use them to their fullest extent. 

The ones crawling over the ground shook painfully—wailing from the lead piercing them. Blood sprayed from their splitting wounds as it rushed out their mouths with ripping spasms. The gun in Kyle's hands shook and sputtered in his arms. The flash from the barrel was dazzling—it lit the barn in brilliant light. Kyle could see all the damage. A few of them opened up in a grotesque show of raw, gaping flesh. 

_"Somers!"_ a voice from behind him called out, _"just _what_ in God's name are you doing—"_

He spun around, keeping his finger locked on the trigger and mangled the man behind him. A trail of bursting tissue ran horizontally across his stomach, ending at his hand, which splashed in bits of minced fingers. He cried out loud, holding at his missing hand before falling back to die. 

_"Somers, cease your fire! I repeat, _cease_ your fire!"_

Kyle sent the bullets to that voice as well. The SWAT member tried firing back at him, but instead took in the lead expenditures and fell from the beam above. He crashed to the ground in a dead _thud_. Kyle heard others rushing behind him just when his magazine began to exhaust. He darted at the bodies on the ground, letting go of his weapon. 

The gunfire behind him caused the ground to shoot up before his feet as he threw himself onto the pile of bodies on the floor. He grabbed one corpse and rolled away, using it to shield the bullets coming his way. He pulled out a pistol from the body's waist and drew out his arm, rapidly firing at the targets he centered in his foresight. The corrupted enforcer he aimed at convulsed from each shot Kyle pumped into him. He fell back, tightly grasping at his wounds. After a few seconds, he died. 

The body shielding Kyle burst apart. The gunner ahead of him using the shotgun took cover behind a wall. Kyle grimaced at the wound eating his left shoulder. A few of the bearings had been lodged there. _Pain was only a reminder that you were still alive. _He rolled and took cover behind a wall. 

So they wanted to play a game_Umbrella's_ little puppets wanted to _play_. 

Kyle crouched and grabbed two grenades, pulling off the rings from both of them. He waited, and watched for the man with the shotgun. 

The gunner left his cover and fired in Kyle's position. The shot struck at the cement block he was hiding from, sending bits of solid grey matter over the ground. Kyle smiled and pitched both lemon-shaped explosives at the SWAT member. He chuckled.

The man reacted to the grenades by leaping off to one side, shooting at Kyle as he fell down. The explosion missed the gunman.

But the bullets Kyle hurled at him didn't 

He left his place behind the corner and closed in on the writhing body. Kyle threw away the pistol he had on his hand and pulled out a scalpel. The almond-shaped blade shone at the edges where the surgical sharpness reached the height of its deadliness as a weapon. 

The body of Capt. Sam Rubens desperately inched away from Kyle's approach. He glared at Kyle with fear-induced eyes as he dragged himself backwards in a crab position. The dangerous leader of the operation was now helpless before the murderer. He was the last of them, and he was reduced to nothing. _Nothing._

"Rubens," _The MeatHook Mangler_ called out melodiously, "have you ever felt the pain of a distraught _Umbrella _scientist who has been used, consumed, and left outside to rot away in his own garbage?"

Rubens gasped, his breath stuttering as he exhaled from his fading lungs. The SWAT commander refused to speak, only striving to slide away once Kyle drew closer. 

"Well then" Kyle acknowledged. "I guess I'll take that as a _no_which will grant me the right to allow _me_ to help you feel what it is like to _be_ _me_, good Sam. And since you work for those clowns from _Umbrella_I will take every pleasure in dismembering you _piece by piece_."

The look on Rubens' face flushed in despair. "You're crazy," he cried, shaking his head. "My God, what have they _done_ to you?! You're fucking _insane!_ They've twisted you—it's about your wife isn't it? This is all just nothing but a personal vendetta you wish to prove! I bet you—" 

"Now, now, Rubens," Kyle interrupted. "I am not the crazy one who created this darker side of me—ask your superiors' that question. Ask the superiors who hired me and saw my wife as some opportunity for _experimentation_. Ask your _brilliant_ superiors who chose to test their toys on Raccoon. Ask your _fucking_ superiors who _HIRED ME TO KILL! ASK THEM, RUBENS, _TELL_ THEM WHAT THEY BENEFIT FROM ALL THIS! _And you know what, Sam? I'm _sick_ of all this experimentation. These wonders of science bring the worse out of mankindand you can sure as hell say that it has brought the worse out of _me_. Because of _me_, the fourth order of Contagion will be canceled, and _Umbrella's_ little experiment will be put to a halt. For _Umbrella_ to clean up, I'll just leave the city to rot as their precious G-Virus decomposes along with it. I'm sure Birkin wanted it that way"

"_What _did you do to Birkin? Just, _what_ in Hell happened to the lab?"

Kyle paused a little, fidgeting with his scalpel. "Let's just say I've handled them in a way so creative, your mind won't be able to comprehend it." He smiled.

Rubens glowered up at him, gritting his teeth in rushing anger. "You bastard you—youyou wait and _see_ what'll I do to you once I see you in _HELL!_."

"I've already seen enough of what you can do, Sam, and you've seen enough of those days as well. I'll make sure of it all ends for you _now_."

Kyle unsheathed his hook and sliced its edge through Rubens' severed abdomen. Rubens yelped pathetically, his arms spread out as he stared at the hook protruding from his abdomen. Kyle tied a rope to the end of the hook and heard him scream again before tossing it over the beams supporting the roof. He used the rope as a pulley mechanism to hoist up Rubens' body until it was level with his own face. Once he was finished with the process, he looked into Rubens' groaning face as the body swayed to and fro in midair. 

He raised his scalpel at the dying man. Kyle Somers then cut him apart. 

Using neat strokes with the scalpel, Kyle cut his shirt open, revealing the bare chest pierced with the silver hook. It jutted from his body, curving outward with rivers of blood sluicing over his belly. The series of bullet wounds inflicted on him showed up as smoldering, blown-out flesh. Kyle then stabbed the scalpel into the center of his chest, causing half of the whole surgical tool to sink under the bare skin. With one movement, he forced the scalpel _down_, cleaving apart the abdomen. Rubens' organs spilled out. 

The slimy texture of the intestines, stomach, and the gushing heart felt warm in Kyle's cold hands. Blood rushed from the cavernous opening in buckets. They fell to the dirt ground, sending up a cloud of dust. Kyle relished the smell of Rubens' body. It reeked with that rusting stench of blood, along with the sour smell of bodily fluids and the acid oozing from his stomach. 

_The MeatHook Mangler_ then grabbed the rest of the bodies in the barn and hung them, filling the interior with a whole assortment of dangling corpses. He collected bodies from the R.P.D. as well. The inside of the barn was soon filled with floating remains of men and women swaying from the wind pushing them. Once Kyle finished his work, he collected the weapons from the dead and piled them inside the SWAT truck. He then set it aflame, watching the fire consume the vehicle and the contents inside. 

After that, he went back into the barn and sat down, thinking alone to himself. 

32__

7:50 P.M., The Barn

Carlos Monterósa let his head bang against the car door. The silence was already too unsettling for him to remain still. He shouldn't be making any noises. In fact, he shouldn't even be _moving_ at all. Whatever happened to the cops out here must have been intense so intense, it left cars all around him in blazes. He pulled the handset to his face.

"0519, requesting backup at the barn, over," he spoke into the mic. He had been repeating that message for over twenty times. And he hadn't had any response. 

Carlos peered from behind his car, making sure the killer inside wouldn't see him. Just a minute ago, the flames seething from the SWAT truck had calmed, leaving the vehicle to waste away as a black, smoldering cube. Carlos remembered watching the man in the lab coat walk out with the container of gasoline and setting the vehicle on fire. It was an uncomfortable experience hiding behind his car while worrying _The MeatHook Mangler_ would find him. All it took was one glance of those huge hooks, and your mind was suddenly in that _fleeing_ mode. Pissing your pants would be the best thing you could do. 

And that was why Carlos was trying to radio for backup since he got here. 

Irons planned the whole operation to work—he _schemed_ the entire planhow could it fail? He had what looked like half the R.P.D. here, along with his best assembly of the SWAT to back them up_ and_ _you're telling me it all didn't work against _one_ guy?_

Carlos shook his head. _Hell no, was it that way._ Monterósa was a cop for five years—there was no way a plan so ambitious could end up in smoke and ashes. It was impossible_one_ guy took everyone out? Just _one _guy? Carlos couldn't bring himself to except the fact. It was all over his head. 

Then there was the radio silence thing—what was the deal _there_? He was sure the rest of the department was already wrapping up the contamination thing back in the Northern Section, as well as the others. How could they refuse to reply to Carlos' pleas? The station was probably packed with cops without anything to dothat was usually the problem with the R.P.D. these days, there was just hardly any action going on. Life seemed to be so uneventful and _boring_. Well, after overlooking the events of the past few months, there were now a lot of exceptions to that problem. 

Carlos thumbed his radio again. "HQ, this is 0519, I am in need of backup outside of the barn _now_, over." He sighed in despair. Nobody was coming—not a living soul 

Although Carlos' luck changed. From the distance facing him, before the disappearing horizon reddening the sky, Carlos Monterósa saw a car. The car was driving fast enough to bellow clouds of dust behind it. It was headed for his direction—toward him. Carlos watched the details of the vehicle develop before smiling to himself. The black and white of the car merged together with the colorful siren, creating the one thing Carlos wanted to see since he got here. A squad carfinally, a fellow R.P.D. officer!

Except this R.P.D. officer was a little of something beyond his expectations. 

This guy was driving fast enough to be eligible for a ticket. His _Chevy Caprice_ cut across the dusty plain as if he were running from the sun. The car was definitely doing around 70 or 80 mphall Carlos can conclude about this guy for the moment is that he was either a gung-ho fanatic or some crazed-out Rookie.

Oh Jesusplease don't let this be some crazed-out Rookieoh God, please

The car braked, power-sliding freely across the rough earth until it stopped a number of feet from Carlos' face. The door immediately opened, bringing out a loud variety of noises. _There goes the idea of being inconspicuous, _Carlos thought, shaking his head at the cop ahead of him. The cop emerged from his car and slammed the door so hard, there was now absolutely no way the killer inside could have missed hearing that. _Goddamn, what is he gonna do nextstart shooting in the air?_

The officer, dressed in the strangest police outfit Carlos had ever seen in the course of his career, came out and greeted him. He was dressed in blue—with the tightest pair of pants squeezing his groin together. _Geez, how can his privates live through that? _Along his chest, he had on a bulletproof breastplate with the letters **R.P.D.**bolded over it. Along his hands, those finger-less, black gloves covered over them. Clutched in his right hand was a rather fancy pistol that Carlos couldn't identify. The cop smiled at him. 

"Hey, _sup_ _hombre_. Name's Leon Kennedy, a pleasure to be of your help."

Carlos looked up at Leon blankly. _Ah, what the Hell,_ he thought,_ at least I've got somebody here to back me up._ He then smiled back. "Hey, _el gusto es mío_," Carlos replied as he brought out a hand, "Officer Monterósajust call me Carlos."

"Carlos, eh?" Leon said, taking his hand. "It's a damn pleasure to be working for you on my first day."

The smile on Carlos' face began to deteriorate. "_First_ day?" he asked in horror. 

"Yep, _first day on the job_," Leon said, smiling before him. "Academy hardened me, showed me the ropes, and taught me how to shoot straight. Graduated number one in my class and am proud to be here to back you up." 

Oh boy, Carlos thought to himself,_ this guy better be a lot better than I think he isoh boyI call for backup and end up getting an Academy graduate._ _Nice._

Well, but at least he said he was number one _in his class,_ Carlos thought again, trying to make his contradiction brighten the situation.He then nodded his head slowly, _very _slowly. It was to be one long, _long_ day today. 

33

"So you're telling me that you've been waiting for backup once you got here, but haven't had _anyone_ but me arrive?" Leon asked, surprised. "And what the _Hell_ happened here!?"

Carlos nodded, pulling out his silver revolver. "Leon, I've tried radioing for backup for what seemed like _days_, and not a living soul has peered their ass down here but you. And to answer your question of _what _happened hereI simply don't know."

Leon nodded, bringing his eyes at the barn ahead of him. "So he's still in there—_The MeatHook Mangler_—he's still hiding back there in some corner wiping his ass."

Carlos nodded again. He flipped out the cylinder to his gun and checked the bullets inside. "I've seen the guy walk out a few times—I'm pretty sure he didn't know my whereabouts. But when _you_ came sliding in, I think he's pretty sure both you and me are here now." He snapped the cylinder in place. "We've better rush in and nab this fucker while we still have a chance. I mean, he _could _try to escape."

Leon sat down next to Carlos. He tried doing that quietly this time—never meant to piss off the Mexican _hombre _when he first arrived. That was Leon's style, he was sorry to say—everything began and ended with a _bang_.

He thought out the plan in his head. Was it really going to work out with the two of them bursting in, guns drawn, while Birkin lurked inside? Something didn't sound right in that judgement. He had an idea.

"Carlos, I've got a plan here," Leon said out.

The eyebrows over his eyes rose in surprise. "Really?"

"YeahI've thought about this a little. You see the barn there?" Leon pointed at the strange construction of the building ahead of them. 

"I seewhat are you trying to tell me. Make it quick." 

"That's no ordinary barna killer of that caliber wouldn't hide himself in a place that was all open and empty like an average barn—there'd just be no place to hide. I'm guessing the interior of that thing resembles something like a maze—a little house of horrors where he's confident to rush out and kill whenever he wants to."

Carlos nodded to what Leon said. "Okay, and what can we conclude from this, Mr. Scholar."

Leon took a deep breath. Surely, he had feelings of how much this whole thing made sense to himit just came to him. "I'm saying if the place is like a maze—we'd better stick together, because we are at a 2-against-1 situation. If we were to stick close, then he'd only be able to get _one _of us—you got that? And if he either got you or me, then one of us could bag him right there while he was busy with the one he just pounced."

He saw a look of enlightenment from Carlos. "But what if he's already killed the one he's just caught? Orwhat if he takes that one hostage? What is there to do?"

Leon smiled. "If Birkin kills one of us, then that'll give either of us a chance to kill him right there without worrying about hitting the wrong guy. But if this _Mangler_ wants to take a hostage to buy some time, I'd say one of us just shoot him regardless of what he may do to the hostageAcademy taught me that."

"You're shitting me, _Academy_ taught you that? Damn, I wouldn't wanna be the one caught by him if you're gonna do that to me."

"No," Leon chuckled, shaking his head, "I was only playing with you. Anyway, the plan: if the place is wide and open, we can spread around as long as we can see each other. If the place is like a fucking mazethen I say we stick _really_ close and never lose sight of each otherthat's my plan."

"Sounds like Academy crap to me," Carlos said heartily. "But it sounds good, Rookie. A bit crude, but nothing that'll get us killed."

Leon was beginning to like this guy. "All right then, Carlos, let's go catch _The MeatHook Mangler_, you follow me and look for my orders, got that?"

Carlos suddenly found himself noddinghe was actually taking orders from this Rookie cop. "Uh_okay_," he acknowledged, as if his mind was being controlled. 

And the strangest thing was the fact that he didn't mind taking orders from this Rookie. Five years in the force and this Leon Kennedy only on his first day, Carlos Monterósa actually felt no shame taking his orders. Now _that_ was strange. 

The two policemen rushed toward the massive structure, guns drawn and ready for the hunt. One of them, a burly, young Veteran, stood by the gate with his .38 revolver held up to his right cheek. The other, a younger Rookie of about moderate build, held down his H&K VP70 before the opposite side of the gate. They both looked at each other, communicating with their eyes over how they'd get the gate open. The Veteran took a few glances at the wood entrance of the barn. He then nodded to the Rookie. The Rookie nodded back while moving his eyes toward the large bar locking the entrance in place. Once the bar was released, the door could be opened. Silence crept in between the officers as they sidestepped toward the door. A crow hovered over the barn, voicing caws directed at the dying day. Clouds were forming over the red-orange sky. They were dark, grey, and leaden in texture. They loomed ahead and began to cover the sun's masterpiece. 

The Rookie grit his teeth and kicked up the black bar holding the entrance in place. It flew out from its base and flipped onto the ground. Once the dust fumed up from its impact with the dirt, the Veteran shot forward and kicked open the double doors. He used one well-placed thrust at the center. The doors flung open. 

And the cops burst inside. 

__

"What the Hell" Carlos gasped, eyeing the dozens of bodies hovering above them. 

Leon swallowed hard, keeping himself from getting nauseous at the sight. 

Blood dripped from above, raining over the both of them as it left red stains on their clothing. The bodies—all of the bodies—hung from meat hooks lodged through their abdomens. Leon saw one corpse that hardly looked like a body at all—there were so many organs pouring out of it, it nearly resembled a hunk of leftovers from the slaughterhouse. 

Leon grimaced and put his gun forward, ignoring the bodies in order to scan the distance ahead. He turned his head around and gestured Carlos to follow him from behind. Carlos began to shake a little as Leon saw him rip his eyes away from the dead. He pressed his lips together and continued with Leon through the barn. 

Leon was right about the place. The whole area _was_ a maze, maybe a little too close to a maze also. It had a rather narrow hall winding into a shadowy region both of them were afraid to venture in alone. Carlos hugged the wall facing Leon as he side-stepped around the corner. Without being distracted from the blood dripping wherever they went, Leon studied the walls and the interiors with intensity.

He felt Carlos' footsteps behind him; the smell of the place was so thick with blood, Leon coughed from it. The air surrounding them felt uncomfortably moist, like the feeling of wearing damp clothes; Carlos twitched from it. 

They moved along the walls, stepping around corners as they dwelled deeper into the inescapable dimension. Suddenly, the both of them found themselves entrapped in the shadows of the barn, with tiny shafts of light breaking through the walls and cutting the darkness. Red hay began appearing near their feet. Death seemed an inevitable aspect. 

Carlos heard a sound behind him. The sound rushed from the shadows surrounding them. It seemed to rock the barn, making the bodies sway above them; the walls creaked to his side. He shot a determined glance at Leon. _Why, we better bag this piece of shit_, his eyes said, _oh boy, this is the last place in the world I wanna die in._

Leon stood ahead of him—they were already nearing a corner that would lead into a larger space—they knew it from the light shining around it. The sound they just heard were doors to the back openingthe killer was around that area. If he was there to open the doors, then he had to be standing there, most likely unaware they had just rushed in. He eyed Leon as he neared him. 

"Stick around and cover me," Carlos whispered, _"I'm moving in there first."_

Leon nodded, bringing his arms to rock a little from the gathering tension. He waited near the corner as Carlos made his way past him. Carlos stuck to the wall beside his right. The silver in his gun glistened into Leon's eye. He nodded to Leon. 

Carlos swung around the corner beside them, bringing his gun over him and down at anything he was to aim at. Leon followed after him, stepping over and pivoting with his right foot around the corner in almost the same way. He raised his gun once he reached the other end—he had lost sight of Carlos for about one second before the movement, but was the mistake _that _crucial to his partner's defense? _Oh yes_.

Leon stared ahead, shocked at what he found around the corner. _Carlos was gone. _

34

Nathan pounded at the elevator door. It sent echoes through the darkness he was stuck in. 

"_Help me!_" Nathan screamed, slamming at the thick metal with his palm, "somebody _please_ get me out of this _fucking_ elevator!" 

Nobody replied. Instead, screams sounded from the other side of the door. Other noises were there also. Nathan heard occasional gunshots echo from the ground floor he lay trapped in. Then, accompanying every gunshot, there was a scream—or what seemed like a moan—rushing through the elevator into his ear. Nathan sat through those noises for about three hours.

Which began to drive him _mad_. Really, _really_ mad!

But it also made him feel enormously tired at the same time. Nathan yawned. 

It was strange he could actually be feeling so tired during this timewhatever that was happening out there sounded like a terrorist attack. Who the Hell can tolerate that? But Nathan hadn't slept last night and it seemed a good idea to doze off and catch a good number of hours while waiting for someone—possibly a fireman under these circumstances—to free him out of this elevator. _I mean, what other way lead out of here?_ Nathan couldn't try some ninja trick by leaping out the elevator's top or something—he really didn't feel like pulling elaborate stunts today. After finding the elevator phone was out, along with his trying to pull the alarm knobs with no result, he began to feel there was nothing better than screaming his way outor sleeping for the time being. 

Nathan stepped back in the dark until his back hit the wall behind him. He propped himself down on the floor and closed his eyes, clutching at the pharmacy folder with his hand. _Oh well, so much for screaming._ He fell asleep. He fell into deep sleep. 

The guys should come in and open the doors, Nathan thought as he dozed off into dreamland. _Yeah, that's right, they should come right in soonI'll just take a quick nap and they'll happily wake me up, and I'll go home. This whole deal ain't nothing to worry overI'll be fine, I know, I'll be finethat's how life ismost things fall into order againthat's itI'll be fineI'll just lay here and sleeeeeep the day away _

What he didn't realize was the fact that not _all_ of the things fell into order again...and _this_ was one of them.

35

Leon spun around, throwing his aim in all directions. He swiveled his arm frantically. His eyes rolled around in its sockets, hoping for the Carolina-blue color of Carlos' uniform to appear in his eyes.

_"Carlos"_ Leon hissed, being aware the killer could hear him also. _"Where the fuck are you?"_

A slight rustling in the dark cornerit moved around him. It seemed as if it was limited to wander only in the shadows and to avoid the light. 

Leon took careful steps, slowly rotating himself to aim at wherever the sound was originating from. He paused, looking carefully around the large storage area he and Carlos had ventured into. The late-afternoon light bursting from the entranceway caused him to squint away as the sunlight drenched the interiors with a golden glow. Leon kept his aim ready. This was it. He was in a large area now—this was no maze anymore. The killer surely had skill in snatching Carlos as they were rushing in. This Birkin was either a professional, or somebody that was _really_ into what he wanted. That was the distin-guishable thing. Leon Scott Kennedy wasn't against no cream-of-the-crop serial killer. He was pitched against an ingenious, psychotic_ Hannibal Lector _rip-offon his _first day on the job_. 

_Great, real swell,_ he thought,_ God must be creative in shaping people's lives—either that, or he's gotta be a goddamn sadist._

A scythe fell from the wall toward his right. The sound caused him to spin around and throw his aim at it. He almost pulled the trigger. The rat, appearing from the wall where the scythe had fallen from, screeched and zipped across the beams. He sighed. 

A chuckle appeared from behind him. It sounded maniacal, like the voice of insanity. It was _Birkin._

Leon turned his head around, slowly. His eyes narrowed. He carefully stepped around and faced the voice coiling from the darkness. He raised his pistol at it. _"Birkin,"_ he called out, "you're wanted for arrestjust drop that hostage and come out with your hands beh—"

_"My name is not Birkin"_ the voice whispered, it now originated from a different direction. _"It's KyleKyle Somers."_

"Well whoever you are, Kyle, show yourself immediately cause you picked one _bad_ day to screw with me—I want you out here where I can see you. Any further statements will only have me turn into a raving lunatic—I believe we don't want any of that to happen, now, do we? So, you gonna comply, or you want me to chase after yah?" 

He heard Kyle (_or was it Birkin?_) chuckle again. The low-pitched laugh stretched through the barn by echo. _"A bit brash for a Rookie on his first day, isn't that right, Officer Kennedy?"_

Leon's heart flipped. Not only did the fucker guess that today was _Leon Ken-nedy's first day on the job_he actually _knew_ what his name was. He began to shudder, almost losing his concentration. The barn seemed to warp around him and close in as if it were poised to chew him to pieces. He spun around and leveled his foresight at the shadows behind him. _Shit_he was everywhere. One moment, he was on the right side—the next, he was behind him

_"Now Leon, here's our little situation,"_ Kyle continued to hiss, _"you don't know where I am. I have your friend here with me. And also, my poor policeman, any bad decisions on your part will have this friend of yours killed right away." _

"All right," Leon said apologetically. He realized his disadvantage. "You're right, Kyle, you winthere's nothing I can do now but walk around and act stupid while I'm trying to nab _The Invisible Man_—but for _God's_ _sake_, don't you kill that hostage! This is my first day, and the last thing I need is to start my career with some personal demons, so you play niceor I won't."

Kyle laughed this time. The sound now carried from Leon's left side. He spun and threw his aim towards it. He was about to pull the triggerbut he couldn't. _Carlos was in the way!_ If he tried shooting now, he'd risk his partner's life along with his own. _Shit!_

"Your humor befuddles me, Leon," Kyle began to speak out. His voice had a tone of rage embedded in it, as well as some kind of tormented sorrow that Leon couldn't dig out. From the sound of his voice, this Kyle Somers was already detaching from the William Birkin he had in mind.

"As a former scientist for Umbrella," Kyle continued, "I have been mistreated beyond the worst degree. And what I received from it was nothing but_ shit!_" 

Leon sniffed and refocused his aim at wherever Kyle's voice came from. "What happened, they didn't pay you enough?" 

"_No,_" Kyle said angrily, "my cousin, William Birkin, created a lethal pathogenic microbe that was to be used as a weaponand my wife, Laura, was used as one of their original tests." 

Leon brought himself to blink a couple times. So, this Somers was actually William Birkin's cousinwho was out to seek revenge on a soda company? _Umbrella_ experimenting with biological weapons? What the Hell? No way. He didn't believe it. 

"All right," Leon said, brushing aside everything Kyle had just told him, "let's just cut the chit-chat and get to the fucking point_you_ are William Birkin and that's final. There's no way a soda company could be out doing all that. You better show yourself or I'll just take you _and_ the hostage along with it."

Leon heard a faint mumble from the darkness. It was Carlos pleading for his life. _You just hang in there, buddy,_ Leon thought, feeling the sweat rolling down his chin. _After we get this crazy fuck, I'll go buy you a drinkbut for now, hang loose._

Birkin grunted as he rushed around Leon, which forced him to turn around and re-fix his aim at the rustlings he gave out. Did he piss him off? Maybe. Looked as if Birkin here wanted to play some false-identity game and Leon got him mad. Big deal. 

Birkin appeared at the entranceway. The light outside made him a silhouette.

"_Freeze!_" Leon shouted, aiming at him.

It wasn't Birkin. Nowait, it _was_ Birkin. No. Leon didn't have an answer. 

He looked almost exactly like William—his face was similar, his killer's glare was almost the same, his deadening sneerbut it wasn't William Birkin. What the Hell was Irons' point when they were all aiming for the wrong person?

"I've told you already," said _The MeatHook Mangler_, "William Birkin is my cousinmy name is Kyle_Kyle _Somers_._" The glare on his face sharpened, "And you've pushed me too far, Kennedy. And if you get any closer to that edge, I'll just let the blood flow from your colleague's throat"

Leon's eyes looked lower, widening at who was held hostage. 

Kyle had a scalpel pressed against Carlos' throat. It was under his grimacing face, where his eyes were widened until the white of his eyes surrounded his irises. _"Leon,"_ he groaned as he struggled in his arms, "_don't you listen to what he says—forget about me!_ Listen to your Academy training,' shoot _him_ regardless of _me_!"

Leon lowered his eyes to focus his aim at Kyle. He shook his head. _No Carlos, _he thought, _you're comin home with me. A few years from now, we're all gonna look back at this day as friends, and we're gonna laugh togetherbecause you're gonna make it home, hombre! You're gonna make it!_

"Something is happening to Raccoon City," Kyle interrupted. "So far, you don't know about any of it, do you?"

"I've got no need to know, since I already have your ass where I want it to be," Leon replied behind his VP70. 

Kyle sneered at him; his teeth spread across his parting lips. "Right now," he spoke in an almost chanting manner, "your city is being experimented on"

"Bullshit," Leon said. His aim on Kyle intensified. 

"You don't believe?" Kyle raised an eyebrow. "Have you witnessed some strange occurrences lately? Empty streets, irregular behavior in animals, a sudden loss of communications_zombies?' _It is the work of _Contagion__Umbrella's_ experiment on a city-wide population. The fourth order of Contagion was cancelled because of me, and I am hoping Umbrella will _pay _for their actions that provoked me"

Carlos struggled again under Kyle's arms. "He is _shitting_ you, Leon! Shoot him, dammit! Shoot him _now_!"

"and to satisfy this price," Kyle continued, "mankind will pay for the actions of Umbrella as well. Did you know what kind of secrets the R.P.D. holds?"

Leon shook his head. He kept his aim on him. 

"Your Chief_Irons_ is part of the conspirators hired by Umbrella to withhold this city_you_, Leon, should have been killed during your _Secondary Assignment_. Irons ordered me to eliminate you once you entered the Birkin household. I refused. You see, I had far better things to do than assassinate pathetic low-lives."

Leon couldn't handle it anymore. There was too much being revealed to him for his sanity to fully contain. His grip on the pistol began to shake._ The entire R.P.D. was corrupted._ It wasn't trueno, _it couldn't be._ Leon cleared his mind and kept his hands from shaking. The orange sky behind Somers glistened from the almond-shaped blade of his scalpel. The grip of his knife while he held it against Carlos' neck was firmcalm as his demeanor displayed.

"So now," Kyle said, "I'll open doors to a deal with you, Kennedy. Since I believed my decision to disobey Irons was nothing but a mistake, I'll give you five seconds to take that pistol of yours and kill yourself with itor your friend Carlos here will die."

"_What?"_ Carlos cried. 

"And what if I _do_ blast myselfwill you spare him?" Leon asked.

Kyle's face didn't change. "No. He is to be killed either way."

Carlos' breathing began to grow more intense. "_Shoot _him!" he yelled, "Just _shoot_ the fucking freak, Kennedy!"

"That doesn't leave a whole lot for me to choose now, does it?" Leon asked. 

"Life isn't fair, is it?" Kyle replied. 

Carlos moved around againit was a miracle Somers hadn't killed him already. "Leon!"

"Five" Kyle began to count down. He eyed Leon without any emotion. 

Leon drew half his attention on Carlos. "Don't you worry, man"

"Four"

"Worry? I've got a _scalpel_ held against my neck. Don't you try anything _stupid_, just _shoot him!_"

"Three"

Leon grit his teeth. The bumps serving as sights to his pistol fastened themselves over Kyle's head. He pulled back his trigger finger—

Kyle's eyes twitched. "I see since you're not obliging—" He snapped his scalpel arm back, forcing the blade to slash across Carlos' neck. He did it, he really did it. 

Kyle Somers slit Carlos Monterósa's throat. 

The shiny, blood-drenched blade disappeared into Carlos' throat as it slid through and traveled under his Adam's apple and exploded its way out from the side of his neck. Blood fountained from the thick gash under his chin; it flowed down his chest and caused the baby-blue color of his uniform to soak a dark red. The color began to spread across the shirt. As Carlos fell to his knees, his mouth blew open in a silent, inaudible scream. He couldn't make any noises. The severed vocal cords were the reason. Blood continued to gush and pour forth from his opened neck. Both his hands rose up and clawed at his gaping wound. Both his fingers were slimed with his own blood. They changed into a dark color as he felt the ticklish sensation of his own blood pushing its way out from between the mouth of the parted skin and cartilage. His life began to drain that very moment. Carlos tried to scream, but he couldn't. His voice became the blood jetting forth from his slit throat. 

Although Leon did manage to scream. He was able to squeeze out a long, continuous _"Nooo!"_ at Somers as his VP70 spattered three bullets. The three lead slugs slowly exited from the flames shot forth from the barrel of his gun and traveled through the distance separating both killer and law enforcer. They sailed, zooming faster than the speed of sound amidst screams and reportstoward Carlos' dying body. The three bullets punctured into his chest and splattered more blood everywhere. An extra pint forced from the opening in Carlos' throat. It flew through the air breaking into tiny red beads. He fell back, feeling Somers' legs under his shoulders before contacting the dirt with his head. 

Leon's face contorted as he saw Carlos fall back. The smoke slithering from the tip of his barrel formed a snake that hissed at him. In his Academy days, Leon Scott Kennedy shot pimentos out of olives from ten meters. On his first dayhe couldn't even distinguish friend and foe alike from five meters. He meant to shoot Somersbut where had the bullets gone? Dammit, _where was the explanation?_ But there was no time for explanations. Leon watched as Kyle readied to return his own set of projectiles.

Kyle winced as the pain in his left shoulder began to bother him again. With his left hand, he held up the .38 revolver that Carlos had holstered and rapidly fired at the Rookiehis left hand shook as he fired—the pain of his shoulder was beginning to make his inaccuracy even worse. But the bullets didn't miss Leon. Not all of them. 

He watched as the cylinder from the pistol spun and the blasts lit the barn. A few of them zipped past the Rookie's head, nicking his hair and causing it to flail. Another pack blatantly missed him altogether and smashed into the wood cubicles behind him. But at least two made it into the uncorrupted Officer. Kyle grinned at the view. 

Leon flew back, taking the shots with a twisted expression of pain as his dirty-blonde hair brushed forward. Kyle watched him fall back, dead from the two holes smoldering from the thick material on his chest. He laid still on his back. His greenish eyes were open, staring at the ceiling of the barn. Kyle smiled. 

He turned around, walking toward his table of hooks and other utensils for destruction. He grabbed a large, shiny meat hook. Before he was to depart in one of their cars, he'd take the time to hang these two up as special trophies to his triumph. Fine specimens they were, indeed. _Umbrella _will pay, mankind will pay as well. He laughed. He laughed until the sound spread through the whole barn in one malicious chortle. The meat hook he held up glowed into his eyes. It'd shine more beautifully once blood was all over it. He laughed again. 

His thigh and his right calf suddenly blew open. Pain screamed up his head from both legs. Blood sprayed and drenched from where the wounds appeared. He fell over, clawing at the dirt ahead. Someone had shot himtwice. Leon. It was Leon Kennedy. He cried out from the pain devouring at his legs and movements. _Pain was only a reminder that you still alive. _He grimaced, clenching his eyes shut. He slowly got up, stumbling awkwardly on his feet. 

And began to run.

Smoke slithered from the tip of his VP70. Leon swore to himself that it formed a sexy angel telling him how great a shooter he really was. He kept his aim on Kyle while he lied on his back. In the position he was in, his chin was touching the burnt spots on his bulletproof vest. 

_Thank God for bulletproof vests_, Leon thought, nearly smiling. He saw Kyle struggling on his feet to run. _I ought to kill him,_ he thought angrily, b_ut I won'tI'll have more fun kicking his ass before he goes to Death Row. _He carefully aimed at Kyle's right Achilles Heel and let out another bullet. 

The heel behind Kyle's right foot opened up in white tendrils of tendons and blown-out flesh. He crashed into the ground. Leon stared at Kyle's writhing body while he leapt up to his feet. He quickly ran to Carlos' body. 

Carlos was still aliveexcept for the fact he was nanoseconds away from death. He gagged helplessly from his torn throat, trying to scream as his body convulsed from shock. No sound came out except for the sound of cackling blood rushing from his neck. Leon held his shoulders, watching with flowing grief. He looked at him straight in the eye, trying to understand what he was really saying. 

From the weakening gesticulations, Leon watched as Carlos died with his eyes saying, _What you waiting for, Leon? Go after him! Go after his fucking ass! You were the lucky one—now, don't let that luck turn against you! Nab the son of a bitch for me! _He then stopped moving, cutting his struggles short as he stared blankly at Leon. He didn't blink. 

Leon closed his eyes; it almost looked as if he was crying. He frowned in pain as he slid his palms down Carlos' eyes. Once the flat of his hand passed his eyes, they were peacefully shut. _This could've been the start of a great career with you,_ Leon thought, adding pressure to his tightened lips, _I'm sorry it had to end this way. _He opened his eyes again, throwing it onto Kyle's struggling body. He grit his teeth in furious rage. 

Somers was getting up again. 

"Ah, _Hell no you won't!_" Leon shouted. He flew to his feet and sprinted toward Kyle, who was already limping off again. 

His image rocked in Leon's vision once he began chasing him; the dark shape of him was growing larger in his eyes. Kyle's staggering limp soon became a ridiculous stride. How did the guy manage to do that after he was shot three times? 

At least This MeatManglin' Hooker is slow enough for me give him one big, fat,_ tackle,_ Leon thought with added intensity. 

How could it be? He thought he had killed Leon Kennedy. He had managed to shoot the Rookie twice, contacting in vital areas where he'd live a maximum of ten seconds before reaching the flatline. How was it possible a young man in his mid-twenties could withstand a bullet in the heart, as well as one in his lungs? Kyle snarled. Of course. The answer was there all this time. 

Bulletproof vests. Leon was wearing one over his chest. Why hadn't he shot him in the head when he had the chance?

Kyle grumbled something under his breath and rushed along, hoping to reach the cars so he could escape. He had already heard Leon shout something at him as he was getting to his feet again. It sounded like something to discourage him from continuing any further. After that, he heard rushing footsteps catching up to him from behind. 

Kyle Somers let out a gargling groan. He took larger strides in his escape. The pain was excruciating—it made him feel as if he were dragging balls attached to chains. But that wasn't enough to stop him from attaining his goals. From this perspective, Leon was a mere obstacle in Kyle's path. And that obstacle was to be dealt with when he had the chance. If _only _he had the chance

Leon hurled himself onto Kyle's back, spreading his arms to crush it around the muscular frame. He fell over him, bringing Kyle to smash down into the dirt face-first. He tackled him and held him down as he brought his fist back and struck at his head a few times. Kyle shook at every impact. 

"Never—fuck—with—the—R.P.D.!" Leon yelled furiously; his voice trembled and broke a few times. He kept on repeating that statement as he beat down Kyle's head, causing small rivers of blood to streak down his cheek. The sweat that shattered away from Kyle's face landed on Leon's arm. They glistened over his arm like morning dew. Once he was finished, Leon pulled back his right arm and grabbed his handcuffs. 

"You have the right to remain silent," Leon said as he unsheathed a pair of his handcuffs. "Anything you say" He spun the cuffs around and whacked a cufflink shut to one of Kyle's arms. "_Can_" He pulled back, tightening the cufflink _hard_. Leon heard a faint _crack_ utter from Kyle's wrist. "_A_nd _will_ be used against you in court or law," he finished before going on to cuff the next arm. "And if you need a right to an attorney," Leon added, "you can fuck that idea cause you'll be locked in maximum security before you know it!" He then reached to grab the other arm.

Right before Leon could complete the bondage, Kyle spun around and slapped him across the face using Carlos' revolver. The blow was painful, giving out a warbled _thwop_ in his ears as he fell backwards. Kyle leapt on him. 

He threw himself to sit over Leon's stomach. His arms shot into his neck, squeezing at it in increasing pressure while he pulled back and slammed his head down over the earth. Leon felt his senses wearing out as the world rocked vertically in his own eyes. 

"You_bastard!_" Kyle shouted. He continued on slamming Leon while adding more squeeze to his neck. Kyle's nose was broken, with blood running down his mouth. Blood was smeared over his cheeks as well. Some of it dripped all over Leon. "Do you, Leon Kennedy, _think_ you can stop me from accomplishing my plans? Do you? _Do_ you!"

Leon groaned from the pressure rushing up his face. His face was flushed in red from the choking. He brought his arm back and launched a right hook toward Kyle's head, striking at it with tightened fists. He repeated the action with the other arm, swiping left, right, left, right until Kyle flew over and fell onto his side. Leon roared in primordial rage, gasping for air. He tried to grab Kyle's other arm so he could successfully handcuff him. 

But Kyle kicked him in his ribs. The thick boot contacted with his body and knocked the air out of him. Kyle lunged over him again, causing the both of them to roll across the dirt, struggling as they wrestled each other and screamed in frustration. 

__

You're dead, Kyle's thoughts chided at the Rookie beneath him, _so much effort placed into sabotaging Umbrellaonly to have it result to a crude fight with YOU. Leon Kennedy, you are to DIE RIGHT NOW!_

His hand reached around his back and unsheathed his meat hook—a tool that was definitive to the term _MeatHook Mangler_. The hook in his right hand caused Leon's eyes to widen, showing more of the green tint in his eyes. Kyle Somers held him down with his left hand as his right clutching at the hook winded back. With one swipe, he was going to ram the harpoon tip across Leon's ears. After that, he was going to cut this nuisance into so many pieces, the remains will be impossible to identify.

The widening eyes in the struggling Rookie began to shake. _Good_, he was fearing him already. His strength was weakening to Kyle's very own whims. Kyle grinned—his insanity reaching its peak within him. It overflowed in his mind and poured over, coagulating his brain with nothing but death and destruction. Now, the very same Kyle Somers who held the shotgun to kill that Breeder three months ago completely disappeared. In this raging hate embellishing his mind and coalescing with this new rebirth of him, Kyle began to slobber in delirious glee and anxiety. The saliva dribbling from his teeth slimed his chin. His heart thudded continuously, screaming the name of his wife as his older self completely separated from him in the same way a lizard periodically sheds its skin. Kyle Somers was no longer a man. He was now a full-fledged, maddened animal that sought pleasure from the savage acts of homicide. He was to destroy every man and woman on this Earth. He was to kill them all and hang them out with his meat hooks. 

_Umbrella will pay, mankind will pay as well._

Leon shuddered from the sight of the meat hook held above him. Not only was he shuddering from thathe was also shuddering from the look in Kyle's face. The man was slobbering like some dog on rabies. His eyes were pulled open, stretching themselves to reveal the whiteness streaked with the red vessels in his eyeball. His lips drew back, showing the whole set of his front teeth as his saliva stretched down in one thin spittle. 

Leon drew his foot back and kicked into _The MeatHook Mangler's_ stomach. His thrusting contact with the killer sent him flying back several feet ahead of him. His body was suspended in the air for two seconds as he fell back. He landed with a _thud_ on the hard dirt. Clouds of dust jetted from his sides. He lied there silently, while wriggling in pain. His arms and legs waded over the dirt; his face winced in agony. 

Leon hesitated, watching Kyle struggle with himself as he tried to get back to his feet. He twitched while trying to step up—his limbs wobbled like rubber sticks. Leon watched as Kyle fell over again. His face landed into the dirt, powdering his bloody face with brown dust. He hacked a few coughs from the air knocked out of him. Blood soaked from under the layer of dust pressed against his face. He stopped struggling with himself and lied there on his face, panting helplessly. Leon shook his head in contempt at the mess before him. 

Kyle Somers was wasted, Leon nodded to that. The guy was injured in so many places, it wasn't even funny. There were three shots in his leg, immediately debilitating him from ever walking again; a broken nose that covered his mouth with blood; a wound on his left shoulder that looked like a bullet injury; a handcuff crushing his left wrist—and to top it all off, multiple cuts across his head dripping with the red stuff. What _more _can a psycho ask for? And now, here was Leon Kennedy—one of the Rookies in the R.P.D.—sitting here before _the killer_ that ruled the late-night newscasts. _Shit_. Leon could be making history from this all-star catch. He was gonna be on KEVL News side by side with Ben Bertolucci while headlines in the newspaper screamed: "**Killer Comprehended by Talented Rookie on his First Day!**" Holy shitLeon Scott Kennedy was gonna be a hero. Now _that_ was something to brag about once he came home to visit his relatives. 

He got up, stepping to his feet as he wiped the dirt off him. He looked at Kyle below. He was still lying in the same position, breathing in the dirt and coughing it back out. The whole process of him sniffing the ground and coughing sounded a little like sobbing.

"Kyle," Leon spoke over him. "Give it up while you have a chance."

He muttered something and coughed again. 

"I mean it right now, Kyle," Leon said, "I want you to pull your other hand out and let me finish binding you. If you choose not to, I'm gonna have to use some force. Now bring out your other hand!"

Kyle had his hand under his belly for some reason Leon couldn't figure out at the moment. It was until his body shot up with rage and rammed his head straight into his stomach, did Leon know why Kyle had that hand held in for so long.

He used all his energy for the tackle throwing Leon back. The dust accumulated in his lungs flared out his nostrils like a bull. The Rookie fell back, landing with the back-side of his head hitting the ground. He screamed in frustration. With Kyle's other hand—whom he had hid from Leon—he drew forth the scalpel used on Carlos and brought it over his head with both hands. His fingers squeezed over the rough grip of the tool, causing both hands to form fists. The further he winded back, the more he was able to see the scalpel embedding into the Rookie's forehead. He began losing his footing before the Rookie, using it to gain momentum for his _coup de grace_ on the hapless soul. Kyle Somers forced his scalpel down toward Leon Kennedy. He aimed to the bare skin of his forehead that stood before his soft brain. 

Leon saw Kyle approaching over him. He threw his hands back, drew out his VP70, and fired continuously at the falling body. Leon showed no remorse. He continued to fire up at Kyle, pulling his trigger finger rapidly while his gun uttered continuous reports. Spent casings spun all over the ground beside his face. Blood spurted from Kyle's mouth. It spilled out of him like liquid-filled vomit. Holes burst from the back of his lab coat. The red liquid holding his life sprayed in multiple directions. He convulsed violently from each bullet exploding through him. Leon kept on firing. 

He kept on firing until six—seven—eight—nine—ten bullets killed Kyle. 

As Kyle fell over, wide-eyed with death, his head swayed in multiple directions as its base rolled freely around his joint muscles. He landed over Leon. The scalpel in his hands spun off.

Leon lied on his back, letting his head fall onto the dirt. He gave out one _long_, refreshing sigh. 

It's over, he thought to himself, as Kyle's blood warmed his body, _It's all over_

36

Claire Redfield heaved the container over her shoulder and set it down beside her motorcycle. She then bent over, resting her hands over her knees. She let out an exhausted sigh. 

_Got to get going, _her determination called out. _Bartowen's watching—they're watchingcan't whine about sore joints and achy muscles. Must go on. _

She wrapped her fingers around the handle of the container and lifted it up while twisting open the filler cap to her motorcycle. The strong dizzying odor fumed from the opening. Claire held her breath as she added the funnel to the small hole. She tipped the container and steadily poured the gas into the tank. 

"This shit better work," Claire grumbled to herself. "I didn't drag this thing for hours only for it to flake out on me"

She continued to pour the gas in, while hearing the sound that dribbled and rolled like the noise of urinating. As she emptied the plastic container, she noticed the flame decorations over her fuel tank. Claire gave out a small frown while wiping some dust off of it with her palm. "Damn, and I just cleaned my bike also," she said. 

Once the transfer was complete, Claire pulled the container back and set it onto the ground. She hadn't used all the gas in it. At least half a gallon was still left sloshing inside. She then took the filler cap and twisted it back on. 

Something touched her feet. 

Claire stepped back, nearly startled at what had just tapped the edge of her boot. It came from her motorcycle. Claire crouched and looked down at the metallic rod that served as her crash bar. Whatever it was, it reeked of the gasoline and was steadily coiling down the tubes and rolling off her exhaust pipe. Claire shook her head when she realized what it was. Her tank was leaking. 

But it was leaking in such a strange way

_All this time_, she thought,_ all this time, while I have been filling up this thingit has been leaking without me knowing! How was it possible? How could I have missed something so obvious?!_

Claire shook her head. She held her fingers against her forehead. 

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

_How was it possible for it to leak without me knowing? Something had to happen in order for it to take place. Someone had to set me up—just came to my bike one day and punctured it without me knowing _

But if someone did_ puncture it, the gas would've flowed more and I should've found out about it a long time agoespecially when I first left, and that other moment when I filled it up for the second time. Or_

_That hit man on the phonehe did it._

"This is a matter of trust, Redfield, it's a test from the Circle itself—you fall short because of gasyour head's mine, milady."

Claire cried in frustration and drove the heel of her foot into the Harley. The heavy motorcycle tipped over and fell onto its side. Claire watched all of this without remorse for her machine. A few scratches was all it'd getshe didn't care anymore. Here she was trying to finish a job for the same organization that wanted her dead. How could life get any more ironic?

The gas (that was to last her for the whole trip and back) dripped from the bottom of her tank and formed a puddle on the ground. Claire watched it grow with disgusted eyes. It continued to leak from her tank as if there were no end to it. A tiny stream of the leaking gas winded toward her feet. As Claire watched it touch her feet, she saw the tiny blips from her motorcycle reflected in the gas. 

Something was attached to the bottom of her tank.

Claire hopped forward at it. She carefully examined the object that was attached to her motorcycle. It looked like a small device of some sort. Some kind of regulator for gas-leakage. The red light on it blinked silently. As the crimson glare winked at her from her bike's shadow, the gas streamed from its sides. Claire reached her hand at it. 

The lights on it switched to green. The leakage abruptly stopped.

_Clever,_ Claire thought, _when I get near this thing, it stops letting out gas. Now, what if I ended this madness and ripped this fucking piece of shit off my Harley?!_

She clawed her fingers around the device and yanked it off. 

Claire was fully aware that by doing this, the gas would pour out from the larger opening she just made and quickly spout out at her. 

But what she wasn't aware of was the fact that the device was programmed to explode once pulled from her tank.

When she ripped the knob from her bike, that menacing, _eeeeeeeee_ sound she always associated with bombs began to shriek from the knob. In reflex, once Claire heard the sound and saw the gas begin to gush from the opening, she quickly hurled the device toward the other side of the road. 

Claire dropped low behind her bike. 

The ground dozens of feet ahead of her came up in the explosion. The bundles of sand and rock sent from the ear-splitting rumble whizzed by and reduced a nearby cactus into a slimy heap of hacked vegetation. A lizard tanning in the sun disappeared in a flash of red. A thick cloud of dust fumed into the air. Claire let out her breath as the sound of the trickling from the leaking tank spiraled down her ears. 

Once the dust settled, everything around the five-foot radius of the explosion had vanished into a smoldering crater. Claire stepped up and stared at the damage in awe. If she had held the thing for at least a second longer, her remains would have been sent off into a similar crater lying in the middle of the road. 

_And those crows would be here, enjoying my remains,_ Claire thought in disgust. 

She hoisted her Harley while using her hand to suppress the leakage in her tank. The tank had already lost a lot of gas from the constant pouring and the smell of the drenched road was too much to bear at the moment. Claire reached into her bags on the side of the motorcycle and grabbed a roll of duct tape. She then unrolled a strip using her teeth and taped it over the hole. She added more to the grey patch before dropping the tape back into her bag. After that, she refilled the tank with the remaining gas left from the container and threw her legs over her beloved Harley.

"It's so nice to be back on track." Claire smiled to herself. "Once I get this job done, I'm going to—" 

A crow landed before her. It stood in the middle of the road. Blood darkened the feathers on its body, giving it a sickened look. One of its eyes were red—it glowed like a sparkling ruby. Stuck in between its beaks, whitened bits of flesh hung from its mouth as the crow parted its mouth wide, cawing at Claire. It began to spread its wings and close in on her with its stubby feet.

Claire Redfield stomped the ignition to her Harley, hearing it stutter to life in that deafening roar. In her mind, she smiled since the gas worked; on her face, she grit her teeth from this crow. 

"Peck on _this_," she hissed in frustrated anger. As if there wasn't enough getting in her way already. She then gave the throttle a nice twist and the motorcycle took off, running over the bird in a juicy mix of crunches and pathetic caws. As her speed increased, Claire took out a towel and wiped the blood from her legs and bike. After that, she put on her helmet. 

_Wonder what's happening in Raccoon this very minute,_ she thought to herself, putting on her sunglasses. 

37__

8:46 P.M., Raccoon City

From the sky, a news helicopter—namely _Skywatch,_ _Channel_ _7_—could survey the flames engulfing shops from the Northwest Section, just as it could observe the hordes of lifeless bodies scattered within the alleys of the Central Section. Among the acres of land span-ning outside the city—towards the north—dark patches of debris can be see from the barn where the recent standoff with _The_ _MeatHook Mangler_ took place. Towards the Central Section, hundred of cars are compacted into one another—dozens of them are fiery blazes. The R.P.D. Station, along with the Hospital, are situated within this area. In the Northern Section, similar masses of vehicles are found. The wreckage is immense. It fills the streets, causing havoc for the last line of police officers trying to escape the area. In the next hour, they will either be deador infected. 

With a steady altitude of 1500 feet, the _Skywatch_, news chopper could see a relatively good view of the entire Northern Section. The well-known gas station named _Taxago_ would be visible, as well as the _Emmy's_ Restaurant. Popular stores across Downtown Ryuken Street, such as the ARUKAS tailor and Yuki's Electronic Boutique (which is already stripped bare from looters) could be sought out from among the masses. More so, an observant individual on the _Skywatch_ could even see the rather obscure _Kendo_ _Gun Shop_ being raided by customers eager to protect their homes. Nearly half of the customers invading the store were not there for the gunsbut for something else.

Although there were certain things the _Skywatch_ news chopper could not see, and those were things the entire city feared. _It was the end of days for Raccoon City._ Nearly every form of communications was cut—including radio, television and telecommun-ications. The power needed in the Central Section was momentarily out, and the area was at a complete loss of electricity for nearly three hours. Only auxiliary generators were answers to this problem. 

And that is not all.

Many of the buildings are vacant, with strange noises echoing from their dark doorways. Blood fills the white walls of the only health center in Raccoon: Washington Hospital. The greater part of the R.P.D. has been eradicated—their chewed organs are what remains. Dozens of low growls can be heard from under the shadows of various buildings. Blood trickles from a windowthe heat causes it to grow thick and slimy on the pavement. Dogs turn against their owners. Kids watch as their parents devour their neighbors. Parents watch as creatures burst from their own children—with claws and tendrils waving about. Inmates in the nearby prison suddenly find themselves target of a creature scaling the walls. Its tongue manages twist some of their heads off. Screams are heard from all over Northern Section, where moans and that monotonous scuffling sound is heard as well. All over the City Limits sign of Raccoon, bullet holes and patches of red are pressed over it. Some of the blood manages to ooze off and drip from corners of the metallic sign, before drying on the burning asphalt. 

The color of that blood looks similar to the blood splattered over the windows of the _Skywatch_ helicopter as it falls to the earth_._

"What the _fuck_ is that?!" Officer Gumbo cried out. From the looks of it, it seemed as if the sky was falling down before his hell-bent self.

Before his partner could reply, the helicopter with the name "_Skywatch" _writtenover it dove down and hacked him in half with its spinning blades before crashing into the street. The spontaneous explosion then swallowed his partner, silencing his scream. 

Blue strips and patches of metal thrown from the _Skywatch_ ricocheted from various buildings and struck a few squad cars resting in the street. The pieces of the helicopter cracked some windshields and dented the cars, uttering some nasty _shrieks_. The last of the R.P.D. screamed their last orders and directed their weapons at the horde of walking corpses on the opposite side of the explosion. Out of the Northern Section, there were only three officers left.

"_Whoever can hear me this very minute,_" Sergeant Freeman pleaded over his intercom. He was in a state of complete desperation. "_Anybody left in the police sta-tionbackup is needed in the Northern Section—repeat, backup is needed. Casualties are high—"_

"Freeman, behind you!"

He quickly turned around—his mic still in firm grip—and pressed the muzzle of his shotgun against the zombie's forehead. 

It grabbed him, screaming with an open set of jaws as it pulled him in towards its bloody incisors. It had whitened eyeswhitened eyes that once belonged to Fred Anderson, former reporter for KEVL news. My God.

_Goddam, I had lunch with you three days agoI met your kids for God's sakewe were buddies before this happenedI came to your house for dinner (your wife Wendy can sure cook one _great_ casserole)and nowand now here you are, and this is what I have to do_

He pulled the trigger, and Fred's head exploded.

Freeman's head exploded also. He did that to himself moments later. 

__

"We have just lost Freeman—my God, Jesus, he shot himself. Can anybody back at the station hear_ me? Is there _anyone_ back in the station? Backup is NEEDED RIGHT NOW, DAMMIT! WE NEED MORE UNITS DOWN HERE, THE SITUATION IS CRITICAL. CASUALTIES ARE OVERWHELMING—THEY ARE FILLING THE STREETS—AMMUNITION IS LOW, MORE UNITS ARE NEEDED CAN ANYBODY OUT THERE HEAR ME?!"_

Then a few screams followed thatand after a few minutes, there was static. 

And then there was silence. 

Willie Burrow uttered a small, insane chuckle. It was funny that earlier, Willie was screaming to warn the officers at the barn while hearing a few of them groan for backup after the SWAT team had picked them all out. Then an hour later, he was hollering for backup in a station that was becoming infested with zombies. Nobody came—not even responded—when he called for help. And to top that off, an anger-ridden police Chief with a magnum was stalking the area as well. 

And now_all_ the fucking police men from all over Raccoon were radioing for backup with no reply from anyone whatsoever. Willie heard almost all of them—including good ol Leon's, but he couldn't reply to absolutely _any_ of them. And why was that? Because his _fucking radio was broken for crying out LOUD!_

He leapt to his feet and kicked the radio, smashing it against the wall with the tip of his shoes. It shattered into hundreds of plastic shards. Willie screamed as he stomped at all the remaining pieces using the heel of his foot. So much for communications. Nobody else could hear each other, nor speak to each other. Big, bad, shit-eating Irons cut all the transmissions. Willie had managed to hook up a radio so it could hear and reach out and touch someone at the same time. It was the news of the world. That was when the machine died down after his transmission to the barn. After that, all he could do was listen to everyone's pleas while he sat there, yelling into the mic without any reply. 

He screamed again. 

"You fucking piece of shit!" he hollered. "Oh Goddamn, if you've done the job that you were supposed tothe job you that were supposed to" He sighed as he repeated his phrase, thinking over the possibilities. "I wouldn't have had to kick your sorry ass," Willie finished, putting his hands to his face. He then sat down. 

_I should've been home by now,_ his wistful thoughts spoke out, _I'd be chillin with my baby Lorraine in some hot tub or somethin—our baby would be kicking inside her as usual. Everything would be fine. There wouldn't be no undead reaching through the windows, nor skinless, four-legged bio-freaks scalin the walls. Everything would be all right_

But that was fantasy and _this_ was reality.

Once Willie found out about Eds' death, and who had caused it, Wilson had already become a zombie. Then Jordan abruptly disappeared. Willie heard that his arm was found in the Southwest Hallway, but others have told him that his corpse was lurking the station while stalking the rest of them. Eliza, the mayor's daughter, was without protection when the three died, and Willie lost her after the event occurred. This soon led to the frantic search for Eliza's whereabouts, and by then, every one of them began dropping like flies. They were either killed by Irons or grotesquely mutilated by something else. Adam's body was seen being devoured by a pack of zombies. Lee was found in the East Office—his chest blown open by a magnum. David Ford, who had been infected earlier, was immediately converted. Rick blew his legs off with the shotgun, but had to pay the price of being bit in the leg. After a while, Rick died from the shock. Willie could remember his screams once he was bitten. When his face grew pale and the intensity of his shivers increased, Willie knew that there were only a few minutes left before he had to add the bullet to the head before he came back for all of them. And he did come back. Rick's face burst in blood afterwards. 

After Rick's death, plans changed. The city was overrun and there was no use to protect the station anymore. The entire population was infected, and they were scouring the streets the same way Jordan was stalking the halls as a zombie. The plan was to hold off for a little longer while locating any more survivors. When that was done with, they'd find an escape route near the station. That was the deal for the moment. But the one true question was the location of the escape route, which had been shrugged off by the others. Nobody was really sure where the route was, but after some time put in, it was sure to be found.

Everything was going as planned until the Lickers came back. 

In the West Wing, Drake had his head twisted off by one of them. His dead body didn't stop twitching until two minutes after. The last clips of ammunition were spent, along with a few more lives. Casey, who was permanently paled from all of this, ran from Willie's protection and vanished from then on. He never saw the kid again. Dudley had his upper torso detached from the rest of his body, while Moore died from blood loss.

Two more died, both of whom Willie never got to be acquainted with. He finally came to know them from their reddened remains. And that was all. 

According to Willie's point of view, there were only four officers left, including Willie himself. While he was inside the West Office trying to work his radio, Garrett, Davis, and Chan had been out searching for Eliza and the escape route. Willie was supposed to wait out for their return

He released a clip of ammo from his .45 pistol and examined it. The clip held enough bullets for him to maim a few lifeless bodies before it ran dry. He slapped the clip back up the butt of his silver .45 and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, renewing the situation in his head again. 

_They're not gonna come backsomething happened out there._

Willie sunk his face into his arm, resting it there for a moment. He waited. 

A drop of sweat rolled down his left cheek. It went down fast, dripping from his face in the same way it did from athletes in those _Gatorade_ commercials. He looked up again, watching the large room before him. 

The bluish party hat and the confetti saved for Leon's _first day on the job_ party sat silently among the litter of equipment on the table. So much for the party. 

I'm sorry, Leon-man, Willie though to himself, shaking his head, _I'd hate to break it to you any sooner, but your party's been canceled._

Willie then stood up and walked to the doorway that led to Hell itself. He opened it, and strolled right out. 

He never knew that he was now the only officer left in the building. The rest of the survivors had perished. 

__

8:50 P.M., Central Section—The Bank of the Best

According to records, the Bureau had sent a total of five undercover agents to do "a more thorough investigation" on the whereabouts of the biological terrorist known as _The MeatHook Mangler_. Even though the Bureau was informed of the R.P.D.'s confidence in the case, the field agents located within the perimeters would serve as a secondary precaution in the advent of any additional shortcomings the R.P.D. may have overlooked. Originally, the decision was conceived to provide a sense of security over the case, but with the current situation of Raccoon at hand, the decision quickly evolved into a necessity—a shortcoming that the Bureau itself came to overlook. 

All five agents have lost contact with Headquarters. The Bureau provided 48 hours of silence before sending in reinforcements. That wasn't enough for any of them. Four of the agents were killed, including Special Agents Nancy Garcia and Marcel Gunning. The other two were presumably "infected" by an unknown pathogen, and were nowhere to be found. The last agent, stationed in _The Bank of the Best_, was still alive, and was unable to contact the Bureau under the loss of communications. She stayed inside the building, hiding from the terrors surrounding her. 

Ada Wong sat under the teller's desk with her Glock held up beside her head. Within the silence consuming the atmosphere of the bank, her tense breathing was loud against her ears. But it wasn't as loud as the sound of those moans and cries from the other end of the bank. Those sounds generally rang louder in her head than anything else on her mind. It brought her senses together and made her more alert. Like a gunshot held next to your ear. It ripped and tore its way though your eardrums until it jerked you into position. That was how life was, and that was how her situation came to be. 

Ada darted from under her desk, firing at the targets limping in her direction. She pulled her trigger fast, feeling the spent casings hitting her arm as they spilled from her gun. She had enough bullets to lastshe was sure of that. She was always sure. 

__

8:50 P.M., The Barn

After cleaning himself up (turning that white towel of his into a disgusting red one) and putting on a replacement vest he had in his trunk, Leon dragged Kyle's body and threw it in the backseat of his _Caprice_. He paused a little as he saw the blood accumulate over the seats. The backseat of his car was now a mess. He shrugged. 

_In the future, _Leon thought, smiling, _every crook out there is gonna be afraid of getting a backseat ride in my car after they get a good glance of how dirty it'll get._ He chuckled to himself. He wasn't going to clean this car, no way. The car was gonna strike fear in the name of all criminals. It was to be _Leon's car_, and no evil-doer was to escape its wrath. They'd all be afraid of _Leon_ and _his car_, and at the first glance, they'd run. 

Because Leon Scott Kennedy bagged _The MeatHook Mangler!_ He had his blood all over the backseat of his car to prove it. Every suspect in Raccoon was gonna refer to Leon as _the guy who nabbed the greatest killer on his first day._ There'd be no end to the madness around Leon. Soon, all he'd do is look into the eyes of a killer, robber, or rapist, and they'd all know the answer

He's the guy who nabbed the greatest killer on his first day

And they'd stick up their arms and bow down to the almighty enforcer, begging him to cuff them up before they lost all their personal worth. What a life! 

_It was Leon's Kennedy's first day on the job._

He smiled again; with eyes dreamy before his first day on the force. He closed the door and went to the opposite side of his car. He suddenly felt apologetic for what he thought about. 

"Man, am I so selfish," Leon grumbled to himself while he approached the front of his car. Really, he felt bad for feeling so happy at such a tragic time. In fact, he was already beginning to feel like shit. "Here I am so happy when somebody lost a life over this_shit, _I should be grateful that Carlos was there—because if he wasn't, that'd be _my_ blood in the backseat of _my_ car." 

Leon opened his door and rushed for the intercom. He pulled the mic to his mouth. "0069, I've bagged _The MeatHook Mangler_," Leon smiled warmly. "Repeat, I've bagged _The MeatHook Mangler_. Suffered some casualties, but I'm fine here. I'll also be needing some forensics here," he said, looking around at the burnt cars around him. "Looks as if something else happened here that might of involved more than the killer. And also, suspect is not identified as Birkin, there has been a mistake. The true suspect is Somers, _repeat_, Kyle Somers. And he's dead. I'll be here awaiting for backup to arrive, this is 0069, over." Leon let go some of his breath and released the button. 

Loud, deafening static replied. It scratched into his ears. 

He squeezed the button again. "HQ"

The static continued. Its sound grated its way from the speakers. 

That's strange, Leon thought, _it was just like how Carlos put ithe was trying to radio for backup, and all he got was nothingnothing but static. _

And as if he was there all along, Irons' voice suddenly cut in. 

_"Good job, Kennedy,"_ his hoarse voice replied from the intercom, _"I can see you turned out to be capable all along. We're currently dealing with the contamination now. Remain at the barn until we arrive. If not within the next few hours, head back to the station. I've got a prize waiting for you."_

Something was odd about the way he worded that, that gave Leon the creeps.

"Um, yeah," Leon replied, "I'll remained secured here until the Calvary arrives."

_"You do that, Kennedy, you do that," _Irons said. After that, he laughed. For the first time, Leon was actually hearing the bastard laugh.

And that laugh was one of the most frightening laughs he came to know of. Something was behind that burst of emotion, and that something was awfully disturbing.

Leon continued to hear it echo from his intercom until it deteriorated. He looked out into the distance toward the city and watched as the sunlight began to fade. It was getting dark soon, and Leon was sure he'd be out here at the barn until nighttime. 

Looking at the barn, and noticing the number of bodies in there, he shivered. 

__

8:50 P.M., Central Section, Washington Hospital—Ground Floor

Nathan Lieu was abruptly shaken awake by a noise behind the elevator doors. His dazed eyes saw nothing but darkness, except for the thin line on the elevator door from the light outside. Some sound woke him up, but he didn't know what kind of sound it was. It felt as if it came from a dream, rather than from behind the door ahead of him. But he didn't care. He was still tired, and his eyelids were still heavy. When he was this tired, nothing in the world mattered to him, (except Fiorella) and he was pretty much a brain-dead, walking and talking zombie. 

Whatever that sound was, must have been from one of the rescue teams screaming orders, since that was what it sounded likea scream. But there was nothing to hear and see right nowNathan didn't feel like yelling for help anymore. He felt relaxed, and eased with his mind enough to be eager for sleep. This whole contamination thing wasn't much. Duane was right. It was going to be all over within the next day

As Nathan dozed off, the thought of someone finding him and waking him up continued to roll in his mind. Somebody was going to wake him up, he was sure of that. Things fell back into order again. Everything will be all be normal by tomorrow. 

Someone was going to wake him up, yeah, _someone was going to wake him upoh yeah, someonewas going towake him up_

Oh yeahsomeone was going tosomeone was going to wake him up

__

9:00 P.M., Raccoon City

The light haze presented earlier in the day covered the horizon. It brought a purplish shade over the nightfall and killed the sunset, dispatching the day in one swift motion. Before the sun hid its face from the city, clouds assaulted the sapphire sky and converted it into a sickening grey mass. The atmosphere, once burning with the sun, now casts an eerie, dank look into the city. And strangest of all, a strong wind rolled from the hills and down into the city, causing unheard of noises to cut through the night. The wind uttered low, moaning sounds. The sound of that moaning resembled the noises made from the corpses wandering the night, along with the other creatures inhabiting the shadows of the city. Screams were occasionally heard, but they became lesser towards this time of day. 

Everything else that followed was silence, _dead silence._


	6. Part II : Dead Silence (38-58)

Part II 

Part II : Dead Silence

38__

9:23 P.M., Las Vegas, Nevada

Whenever Barney rolled three snake eyes in a row, he knew something bad was bound to happen. It always did. And he knew it since he had just rolled his third losing roll. 

"Mr. Shlaggby," the woman behind him asked, "someone wants to talk to you."

Barney sighed. "Regina, can't you see I'm in the middle of a game?" 

Her face grew urgent. He saw her eyes widen before his own. "It's very important, he needs you over there _now,_ I mean it." 

The dices were still in his hands when he began to leave the table. Before he turned around and walked off, he flicked them with his wrist and watched the two cubes hop around the table and land out another losing hand. 

Shit.

Sweat began to roll off his forehead as he made his way through the gaming area of the casino. He followed Regina as she made her way through the slots and some old women hoping to score a jackpot before they hit the casket. The jingles of slot machines and sounds of coins going _cluck-cluck-cluck-cluck_ against their trays was all he could hear. The noise around the place was, thankfully, hectic. It helped calm him down. Inside his head, he was screaming, screaming at a figure that was more threatening than anything he came to imagine. 

No—PLEASE! I'm sorry, I am very sorry! Please don't kill me! I am sorry! 

There was a particular name Barney Shlaggby feared, and that name brought terror whenever it was uttered. 

Aden

His hands began to shake. 

SodomAden Sodom.

He trembled violently. His breathing became labored.

_Where is she_

He remembered that day very well. It came to haunt him daily.

_I'll give you to the count of three, Barney_

He could feel the muzzles of both guns pressed against his eyeballs. The holes at the tips of both barrels became new sockets for his eyes. It felt cold, like the bullets inside the magazine, waiting to spear through his eyes. Barney tried to blink, but he couldn't, since his eyes were forced open before the guns. He couldn't see. 

"Where is she," the low voice demanded. It was the lowest voice Barney had ever come across. It sounded omnipotent, like some kind of Greek god. 

The guns were deeply fastened in his eyes. One moment, he was staring up at Aden's furious face—the next, he heard a _slap_ from his wrists, and the guns were pressed into his eyes. Barney could feel his eyelids wrapping around the fore sights of the guns. The pain was excruciating. 

_"I don't know!"_ he cried, _"I don't fucking know!"_

The pressure against his eyes increased. 

"I'll give you to the count of three, Barney. _Where_ is she!"

_"Aden,"_ he begged, _"for what I did, I'm sorry—can't you see that? Won't you forgive me?"_

He heard the hammers on both pistols cock back. "One"

_"No—PLEASE! I'm sorry, I am very sorry! Please don't kill me! I am sorry!"_

"Two"

He knew where Aden's niece was. He knew all along. He was just too afraid to tell this demonic specter in his face. Deep in his mind, he knew that if Aden found her remains, he'd probably kill him in a _worse_ way. The militant hit man didn't know she was dead yet. He was still assuming she was alive. 

But Barney was about to die right now if he didn't tell him. 

_Tell him!_ Barney's thoughts shrieked at him, _tell him, you fuck-head! _

Suddenly, Barney grew terrified with the idea of two bullets mashing through his eyes and into his brain. Even though he wouldn't feel too much, the thought made him speak out. He was sure to die, anyway.

"All right, she's under the staircase downstairs! Look under the mattress and open the door to the basement. She's in the closet down there! Now _please don't kill me!_"

The silver Berettas slid back into Aden's sleeves. He was good at that weapon-in-the-sleeve thing, too good. He then grabbed Barney by the collar and dragged him down the basement. He led the hit man down there, trembling and crying as he opened the doors. He killed his niece, and he was gonna die.

Once Aden saw her, roped to the chair—her throat slashed open, his face slowly turned to seize him with his dark gaze. The pistols appeared from his sleeves. 

_"No, Aden!"_ Barney pleaded, getting down to his knees. His eyes crossed over Kate's body as the dim lamp over her swayed and caused her shadow to move. Her dead eyes stared down on him. 

Aden raised both pistols to his face as he tried to kiss his feet, sobbing over them. One of his tears came down and splashed on the floor. _"Aden!"_

And then Bartowen walked in. 

He was like a ghost—some kind of evil apparition that preyed on bad things. One time you saw nothing before you died—the next, there was Bartowen, walking casually into the room like the grim reaper himself. 

When Aden first saw him, only his eyes shifted. He knew the man in the white suit and knew what was going to happen. Bartowen came to take him into the Circle. 

_When a special person in your life diesyou enter the Circle. The only way out of the Circle is death itself. You give your life to Bartowen. If you fail, you die. If you refuse, you die. If you don't like it, you die. Simple, just like that._

Barney was frozen on his knees when he saw _El Diablo_ pat Aden's shoulder. He was speaking to the hit man in a language that he couldn't understand. It sounded a bit like Israeli, but he wasn't sure. He kept his eyes on them. He noticed Aden's aim hadn't moved, and the pistols were still in the same place they were before. Damn, was the guy calm. But he wasn't calm enough to be entirely heartless. A small tear rolled down Aden's cheek as he listened to Bartowen speak. He never saw Aden utter a reply to Bartowen. That was another thing about the characterhe was so _silent_. Silent, but deadly. Real deadly. 

His heart leapt when Bartowen turned his head to look at him. 

"Normally, I'd kill lowlifes like you," he said wearily, "but I find there is something special about you, Shlaggby, and because of that, I am eager to let you live."

_Eager to let me live?_ Barney thought in surprise. _I was worthy to?_

Barney Shlaggby was a child molester. He was convicted of three previous offenses with other children, including a toddler and an Elementary student. Kate, Aden's niece, was his latest victim. Really, he was supposed to have died, but the devil saved him. And that devil was named Bartowen. 

"Eager to let me live?" Barney asked, a smile beginning to appear on his face. 

"Yes." 

"Butwhat is this special thing that I have."

"You work for _Umbrella_"

Barney was surprised. "H-How did you know that? I'm just a janitor there. I work three days a week—what do want? I can give you _anything_ from there. Money, their soda cans, informationjust ask me and I'll promise you it'll be there." 

The thin line over Bartowen's mouth creased upwards, a portion of his teeth appeared in the smile. "_Good_, that is all I needed to know."

Before Barney could say anything, Aden whipped a Beretta across his temple and his life started over. That was five years ago. He never knew why Bartowen was so interested in _Umbrella_ in the first place. It wasjust a soda company.

"Barney, are you all right?" Regina's voice lulled him out of the dream, "You look like shit, talk to me."

Barney shook his head. Sweat dripped from his face. "I'm fine, just a little something I remembered, that's all." 

"Well, whatever it is, you look like you've seen a ghost."

He pursed his lips, staring into her face. "I have."

She shook her head, nodding off the idea. "That person I told you about is waiting for you behind this door, so if you need anything, I'll be out in the game room."

Barney nodded, watching her leave. He stood before the door. 

_Aden Sodomthe hit men_

The scary thing about Barney rolling straight snake eyes was the fact that he'd always see Bartowen when it happened. It was creepy. Something about that man wasn't right, and he didn't like it at all. 

_And then there was Aden beside himwatching Barney's every move. _

He took a deep breath before the door. He opened it and walked in. 

The door locked itself behind him. 

Bartowen was sitting before him in a large desk. An unlit cigarette was in his mouth. He wasn't alone, either. There were seven other hit men in the room, including _Aden_. They were situated in a large, crescent-shaped table that almost formed a semi-circle in the middle of the room. They all looked at him, their faces calm and expression-less. 

"It's nice to see you again, Shlaggby, sit down," Bartowen said. 

Barney took a seat—the only seat that was situated in the middle of the semi-circle. He was nearly surrounded by the hit men. His left hand began to tremble, but he tried to hide it, keeping it under his right, which also began showing signs of his fear.

Bartowen took a match and placed it in between his front teeth. It was one of the kinds with the wood stems, and it protruded from his mouth like a toothpick. He snapped it from his teeth and the match lit, giving out that _fwisss _sound. 

"Something has happened to Raccoon City," he said as he lit his cigarette. "It is something that involves _Umbrella_, and it is something destructive." 

"What do you mean?" Barney asked, letting out a burst of breath, "that's impossible, _Umbrella's_ nothing but a _soda_ companythere's nothing they could've done that could possibly destroy an entire city." 

Bartowen reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a handgun. It was one of those silver kinds that had a laser on it. It produced a red dot over Barney's leg. 

Barney's calf burst open in a rush of blood. The pain tore him apart, paralyzing his leg. He screamed, snatching the wound with his hands before falling off his chair. The hard floor came up and slammed into his face. The blood from his wound stood out on the white floor. He began to wail._ "What the fuck?! What the hell was that for!"_

"I believe you misunderstood what I just said," Bartowen replied calmly, bringing the red dot toward his other leg. "You see, Barney, the point _is_ you knew about _Umbrella's_ secretsyou _lied_ to me. I didn't spare you just so you could run around and fuck with me while you got away in trying to improve' your life. I wanted something from you, Barney, and you disappointed me."

_"Forgive me!"_ Barney begged. _"They tortured me, they knew I was associated with you! They didn't want me tell you! Please understand! I did what I had to do!_"

He shot him in his other leg. 

Barney let out a second scream, which echoed and reverberated across the room. _"Please, please, BartowenI'm sorry, I'm sorry. Don't kill me! Please!"_

"Now, doesn't a lot of this look familiar," Bartowen smiled. He nodded to Aden, who quickly stood up and rapidly fired at Barney, hitting him in nonfatal areas. Red holes exploded all over his body, missing his vital organs. They wanted him to feel as much pain as possible. 

"You see," Bartowen said over his screams, "your time has arrivedyou should've been dead already, Shlaggby. I'm here to return the favor you deserved for murdering Aden's niece. You molested children, Shlaggby, and that's a no-no. I'm sure justice even has its home in the underground."

Barney choked under his labored breaths. Blood welled up his mouth and flowed down his chin. _"No"_ his dying voice rasped, _"no, I'm a changed man"_

"I don't care if you found the cure for cancer," Bartowen said with the cigarette still in his mouth. "You have molested _and_ murdered children—and along with that, you _betrayed_ me, Shlaggby. You have every right to _die_." He then waved a hand out and the seven hit men came alive.

Before they all stood up and pounded his body with dozens of bullets, Barney identified them. He knew all of them. 

Aden SodomButch CastilloSeiji KurosawaMartin VelvetLouie DinerosEthan Combsand Tyrone Phillips.

They all shot him afterwards, sending off hails of bullets down his soft flesh.

Before he saw the guns blazing, he still wondered what Bartowen wanted with _Umbrella_—the soda company that secretly worked with biological weapons. 

39 __

11:12 P.M., The Barn

It was hard for him to concentrate with Kyle's body behind him. Leon tried to sleep earlier, but was instead shaken awake by the thought of a bloody, dead serial killer sitting behind him. He had his hands on his pistol the whole time, just in case. Leon wasn't superstitious, but he had heard a fair share of ghost stories in the past. His whole childhood was surrounded by tales of evil corpses coming alive to eat the living, just like in _Romero's_ flicks about the living dead.

_Living deadwhat bullshit,_ Leon thought, snickering. How could it be possible for a bunch of dead guys to_ rise_ up and start walking around, chewing people's limbs off?

It wouldn't hurt if you could prove it wrong. Leon switched the light on and took a glance at the dead guy behind him from his rearview mirror. 

Kyle's skin was dead white—nearly purplish from his death. His eyes were closed. All over his chest, the ten bullet holes from Leon's VP70 made his torso look like Swiss cheese. Blood was everywhere. It darkened the area around his mouth in a shady red—like gruesome make-up on a clown. The nose was crushed, with a bit of the white cartilage appearing from the crumpled skin. The eyes, opened, were streaked with a redness that looked as if blood oozed from its pupils. 

_Waitwasn't his eyes _closed_ when he last saw them?_

Leon bent his head forward and looked more closely into the mirror. He scanned Kyle's face. The body looked terribly alive—as if all that time, while Leon was sitting here, thinking about resurrected spirits and things, it was back there watching him. Leon continued to study the corpse in silence. 

The eyes were closedthey were never open. Kyle was really dead.

"Whew," Leon sighed, shaking his head. "Shit, I knew I should've held back on the acid during High School. That stuff really screws with your head in the long term." 

He checked the body behind him once more, making sure again that the living dead did _not_ exist, and that the opened eye was just a figment of his imagination. The living dead didn't exist. Kyle's eyes were still closed. He hadn't moved since Leon threw him back there. Good, very _gooood._

"I've been waitin my ass here for too long," Leon said to himself, "I'm just gonna head back to the stationbastards too busy with that contamination to come up here." 

When he started his car, the engine roared through the silence of the barn, interrupting the crickets and the other animals in the night. Leon turned on his high beams and tried maneuvering his way through the pitch darkness. There was no light over the barn, not even from the moon. "Goodbye, Carlos," he said as he drove away from the barn. "I'll make sure you'll get recognition from this, since you deserved it more than I did. Goodbye." He rode off onto the road and sped back home. 

When he made his way toward the Raccoon City Limits, something familiar came back to bother him. It was the air. The smell of the air. 

The dead scent he had smelled earlier before walking into the police station was back, and it was stronger than ever. Leon coughed, and thought a little about it. 

_Damn, what's the problem with the air all a sudden, it smells so, so_

_Evil._ That was the only word he could associate it with. _Evil._

40

Nobody came to wake him up. 

Nathan slowly uncovered his eyes to the dimmed lights in the elevator, tiredly attempting to reorient himself in such a strange environment. For a moment, he didn't know where he was—he still thought it was all a dream. But he liked the dream he had, and he wanted to go back into it. He dreamt he was trying to protect Fiorella from this strange horde of _monsters_, and he managed to kill off all of them. After that, she hugged and kissed him, while taking off her shirt 

_Felt good, didn't it,_ a part of his head asked, _well, I don't care if you were in the middle of great sex in there. Something's not right here, Nate, and I encourage you to quit thinking about that shit and start concentrating on what's going on right now!_

Nathan nodded—o_kay. _He then groggily got to his feet and looked around, noticing the eerie, dimmed lighting of the elevator. It was like being in a room where the fluorescent lights were almost dead. The lighting was hardly sufficient enough to read anything. It was _that_ dim.

_What time is it,_ he thought, stretching, _it feels like nighttime._

Actually, the scary part was, he didn't know exactly _what_ time it was.

_And where's everybody? Shit! I'm supposed to be home right now! Wonder what my parents are gonna think about me not coming home this lateif it's really that dark out there. _

Nathan was always afraid about the possibility of waking up only to find himself in a large building _alone_, with the time being _way_ over the end of his shift. Whenever he thought about it, it usually frightened him. I mean, here you were working when you suddenly slept and found yourself in a dim place where everybody has leftand you were alone.

He was in the ground floormy God, he was still _down here_.

Nathan's heart began to race in his chest as he tried to find a way out of this place. He was practically stuck here. It was probably late at night and everybody must of left the building in some kind of emergency evacuation while forgetting Nathan behind. Oh _shit_, was this scary. He had to get out of here fast!

He quickly calmed himself down, noticing the elevator door before him. It was closed, but Nathan saw that the slit in between the doors were marginally wider than they were before his long nap. In fact, they were wide enough for him to open with his bare hands. 

At first he tried the buttons to see if the power was strong enough for them to slide apart, but they didn't, so he came up and tried prying them open himself. He slid his fingers through the crevice and gripped around the edges, trying to pull them apart. He then grit his teeth, adding a foot in for extra leverage and tugged harder. The opening slowly widened, letting in more light into the elevator. He pulled more, adding more pressure to the door until his arms grew sore from it. 

Eventually, the door was widened enough to fit his body, and he sat back, resting as he saw the rolling countertop behind the doorway. It was the same as it was before, with its curved lettering that said: WHEA ACTIVITY CENTER, and its meshed lottery device on top. It was pretty much the same, except there was blood splattered over it. 

Nathan froze, sitting there while watching it on the countertop. He saw the thin lines formed from the blood trails as it laced around the T and the R in the word CENTER. More blood was on the floor. A small river was winding from the countertop's wheels and away from Nathan's view. His heart jumped.

Shaking a bit, he crawled out the opening and left the elevator doors. He looked around. 

What he saw almost made his hair turn white. 

A dead body—actually, the remains of a dead body—was sitting adjacent to the elevator doors under the panels. All its limbs were missing, and its chest was clawed open. Nathan took a few steps back as he studied the corpse. The headless torso was split apart, its organs were mashed around, spilling from the opening like a bundle of fruit from a basket. The white walls behind it were red from the damp smears, and the smell filled Nathan's lungs with a thick odor of rust. Teeth marks were decorated over the withered skinproving to Nathan that _something_ was devouring the body while he was asleep in the elevator. _Something._

The fluorescent lights on the ceiling flickered, causing a strobe effect over the body. It caused the image of the mutilated corpse to blink a little. Nathan noticed the hall was now as dark as ever—its lighting about as dim as the elevator's. He gulped, losing some of his breath. He studied the nightmare before him. 

The hall was now a mess—everything was out of place and strewn about while the weak lighting tinted everything light gray. The CHO CHO COLA vending machine was tipped over to the side of the wall, broken open with bits of glass all over the floor. A wheelchair with IV tubes twisting around its metal post stood to the side of the hall. Its seat had patches of blood on it. Another body was lying in the middle of the hall ten feet behind him. Papers covered the floor...most of them unimportant material. Blood was smeared around the walls, sometimes forming what looked like handprints. Some of the handprints ran around up towards the ceiling. 

At first Nathan lost his mind, losing his knowledge of what to do under these circumstances, but he soon figured out what to do. 

_Get out. Get out while you can. _

Something's awfully unsettling about a lot of this, and I don't think most of it was an accidentsomething_ down here killed everyone, and whatever it was, it did all of it while I was asleep. The elevators don't work anymore, so I'm going to have to try escaping through the stairs. _

Nathan turned and ran through the dim ground floor, searching for the door leading to the stairway. He nearly tripped over the other body that was behind him. The tip of his shoes made brisk contact with its face, which was shredded apart. Teeth appeared from where it's lips were torn off. Nathan continued to run. He ran until nothing else mattered to him—not even Fiorella, he was sorry to say. 

The darkness made it very difficult for him to orient himself around the maze of the ground floor. The dead bodies strewn around the corners made it even more difficult. He made steady strides around each turn while eyeing the reflective security lenses mounted high up the wall to make sure he was alone while making those turns. After making several detours around the various halls, he stopped short, realizing what had just happened. _He was lost_.

Nathan kept turning around, spinning his body in every direction, causing the whole scene before him to spin and twist until it blurred. He frantically shot his eyes from one place to the next, unable to pinpoint where he was exactly. It all looked so different. 

A dead woman sitting on a wheelchair stared at him. Her head was tilted to the side, with dozens of IV tubes trailing from her face. Her mouth was gaped for Nathan to see. From the darkness she continued to stare at him, threatening to come alive and stick her own set of tubes into his face. But Nathan wasn't really sure if she could do that once back from the dead. He noticed all her limbs were torn apart, along with her torso cleaved openjust like the first corpse he saw. Her long bundle of intestines hung low in the dim light, stretching down the wheelchair's seat until it touched the floor. From the darkness, her calm, dead eyes stared at him. 

Nathan heard a noise behind him. It was the sound of some object hitting the wall. He spun around and looked down the hall at where it originated from.

A wheelchair had bumped into the wall. The plastic pouch suspended over it swayed a little from the impact. Nathan stood there and continued to watch that plastic pouch as he wondered what moved the wheelchair. 

A faint shadow appeared on the floor behind the chair. It stretched, growing thin until a dark figure made its way around the corner. It moved slowly, dragging its foot. Nathan saw that its head was tilted to the side—just like the dead woman behind him. He continued to stand there, frozen at what he was seeing down the dark hall. As the figure grew nearer, Nathan began to see more of its features.

At this point, he was positive that the figure was an average-sized man of about 5'9", but whatever it was, he wasn't exactly acting like a _normal_ man. He was struggling his way up to Nathan in a drunken swagger, nearly hitting the wall at some times. At first, Nathan thought the man was drunk and badly injured, until he noticed the amount of blood on him. And the facethe impossible face. 

The man was missing half of it. 

_That's fucking impossible,_ Nathan thought, _how—how could anyone live with most of their face gone like that?_ Pink flesh, slimy in texture took over most of the man's facial features. Except by now, it didn't look like a man anymoreit looked more like a _thinga monster._

Its lips were gone, revealing a whole set of its teeth as it neared Nathan. Its eyeseyes that were no longer human shone out in the darkness as white spots. As it stood several feet away from Nathan, it opened its mouth and moaned, letting a rush of air from its opened mouth. Its arms then came forward, reaching for him as their distance narrowed. Nathan tried to run, tried to let his gut instincts take over, but all he managed to do was back away a few steps, frozen as his heart slammed against his chest. _This wasn't happening, no, it wasn't happening. _The thing ahead of him, hissing and wailing, came closer. Its hands now tried to grab for him, swiping around as he missed. 

Nathan felt a pain in his right leg. A surging, excruciating kind of pain. He spun his head around, looking back with terrified eyes. 

The dead woman that was sitting in the wheelchair was biting him in the leg. He had stumbled too close to the wheelchair. Her face, protruding with those tubes, was stuck against the back of his leg. She bit him. _It bit him! _

Nathan screamed, wildly shaking the thing off him. The wheelchair rolled back, causing the thing to slide off it and onto the floor as it remained firmly attached to his calf. Its intestines stretched across the floor, sliming whatever it touched. Its voice came out, wailing uncontrollably while it was muffled behind Nathan's leg. 

The other thing—the lip-less man—was closing in behind him

Suddenly, rage took over Nathan. "You _fucking_ bitch!" he yelled, swiping his leg around while the thing still held on. A couple drops of his blood flew into the wall. Her oral grip over his calf slipped off. Helpless, the corpse shook around, snapping her teeth as the tubes on her face wiggled. Nathan then brought his foot up and repeatedly slammed his heel down the monster's face, crushing it in as all the tubes mashed with it. Blood came up and drenched the bottom of his shoe.

A hand seized over Nathan's arm. The other thing had got him. It jerked his body into its opened mouth. It bit down onto Nathan's left arm and quickly pulled back, ripping only a piece of his shirt. Nathan was left undamaged. It then suddenly let go of his arm. Nathan fell back. 

He got to his feet and hastily limped away, pursued by the _man-thing_ behind him. It was now almost as fast as Nathan, taking brisk steps as he painfully dragged his leg. The wound in his leg wasn't too serious, but it was deep, and Nathan could feel the blood flowing down his leg as he quickly strode down the hall from the thing's grasp, passing more dead bodies along the way. They were all lying on the floor beside the wall. Nathan wondered if any of them would come alive like they did back in that hallway. His answer was _yes_. A hand grabbed his ankle, and he fell. 

41

It has been a couple minutes since Claire took the exit into Raccoon City. Even though the whole trip was consisted of her driving in a _straight_ line, it was nice to feel the wind smash against her face again. It was also nice to cruise at speeds over a hundred again as well. Claire liked the empty roadsthere were no limits, and she liked the idea of incorporating the "sky's the limit" attitude into her life.

The city lights began twinkling from the black void before her as she neared the destination. _The city where her brother lived_. Oh gosh, here she was faced with a chance to reunite with him, and she hadn't really prepared herself for any of this. What was she going to say? _Hi Chris, sorry to bother you in the middle of the night?_ No way. 

Claire sighed from under the intense drone of her motor. She was going to let time handle that. She usually fared well under impulsive situations that called upon quick thought and action. She was going to do that. 

_And what about your little _associations_ with Bartowen? _

Claire sighed again—this time, it sounded less casual, as if it were smothered with dread. She didn't know how to handle that secret for him. If it ever came out, she'd simply sayactually, she wouldn't know _what_ to say. She didn't want to involve Chris, nor his S.T.A.R.S. friends in her personal vendettas. This was her matter, and she was to take care of it herself. She was going to take care of it all _tonight_. 

_The Master's comin to town _

She slowed her bike when her eyes caught a few silhouettes on the road. She didn't know what it was exactly, but it looked like some kind of barricade to prevent cars from coming in and out. The barricade was made up of a bunch of police cars parked together, with cones, road blocks, spike strips, and every other road obstacle imaginable. Yet, no matter how foolproof it looked, it couldn't stop whatever broke through it. 

Claire slowed down until she was at a sluggish 10 mph. She studied the wreckage in front of her. A large breach was centered in the middle of the barricade. Crushed squad cars and bullet-holed vehicles littered the road. Nobody was in sight. She remembered what the hit man on the phone had told her earlier, and it sent chills up her spine. He was right. 

_Today's gonna be a special day for Raccoon City—it'll be easy for you. No cops, no securitynothing to get into your way._

Claire bit her lip and sped through the breach in the barricade, entering the city limits. Her motorcycle's engine rumbled the silent night, causing dense reverberations. The city's first buildings would soon arrive, and Claire was feeling pretty hungry. Maybe before she went off to her job, it wouldn't hurt to go to some 24-hour diner where she could safely sink her teeth into some nighttime meal. That felt like a good idea, since she was starving her ass off. 

Ahead of her, a diner by the name of _Emmy's_ caught her attention. Maybe she'd go stop there to give her stomach something to do. Despite the time, (was it midnight?) she was guessing the store was open, since the lights inside were still on. Although from her perspective, Claire didn't see anyone in there. The place looked emptywhich was actually good, since she had to keep a low profile—couldn't risk it by going to larger restaurants like Burger Kong or other fast food chains.

She parked outside the diner, sighing contentedly to herself as she took off her helmet and stepped foot onto Raccoon City soil. She was finally here! With what should have taken five hours ultimately took the entire day to get here. What a shit on her part. But all that was behind her for the moment. What she needed now was something to eat, and here it was right in front of her. 

Claire Redfield then walked into _Emmy's_ diner, pushing open the door. 

Leon yawned as he crossed the city limits. What annoyed him most about the city was how boring its outskirts came to be. The city was in the middle of nowhere, with forests, plains, farms, and hills spreading in all directions from it. That made entering and leaving the city a huge _bore_, since it was all nothing but a stretch of asphalt for the next hundred miles. For a bustling city like Raccoon, why did it have to be so secluded?

_Ah, c'mon, Leon, what were you expecting around here? Overpasses and traffic? Go to the LA, you fuck-head! It's nice living the quiet life here!_

"Yeah, quiet life," he said to himself, "sounds rather pleasant for a noisy guy like me." He chuckledand then abruptly gasped. 

A body was lying in the middle of the street. 

Leon put his foot on the brake, and the car skidded, stopping a few inches from the body. It had a flock of crows all over it. They fluttered off once his car stopped. Leon got out of the car, checking the body. 

It was a womana dead, mutilatedwoman. 

Leon grimaced at the sight on the road, nearly growing pale. He crouched to examine it. She was lying face-down on the asphalt—her face shredded away. A chunk of her waist area was missing. It made the rectangular shape of her torso look more like a puzzle piece than what it normally had been. A dark-red heap of opened flesh stood out from her side. It was about the size of Leon's head. 

_Shit, _he thought, shaking his head, _who the Hell would _do_ something like this? Besides _The MeatHook Mangler_who, or _what?

And that was when Leon heard the noises—the moaning across from him. 

"Hello!" Claire called out while looking around the corner, "is anybody here? Can somebody help me real quick? Hello!"

No reply. Geez, every place she went to always seemed to be so devoid of people. First there was the trailer, then there was the empty barricade; and now, here she was in the middle of an empty diner! What was the problem around here? Did Bartowen scare everyone off with his piss-sucking hit men? (No offense there, Ethan) 

A pan sizzled behind the counter. Wavering bands of steam rose from the oil in it. It produced a fountain of grease raining over the stove. Nobody came to tend it_nobody._

"_Hello_!" Claire yelled, making her way around the diner. "Is anybody _here_?!"

She was beginning to feel afraid now, just like the time when she found the trailer. Something wasn't right in here. It was like one of those old _Twilight Zone_ episodes where you knew something wasn't right, and then the eerie music would come on before a very young Rod Serling walked into the picture. But this was not _The Twilight Zone_it was something else. _This_ was reality. 

Claire began to form her curious steps into careful ones, slowly peeking around corners with wide eyes. Her ponytail nicked the back of her neck as it swayed. She made her way around another corner before the tip of her ear flinched from a noise in the room. She stopped, tilting her ear to where it originated from. It sounded like munching.

_Well, that's probably where all the food's being served,_ Claire thought, following the noise. She walked to where it was. 

A man was on the floor bent low over a dead body. His back was facing Claire. His face dug into the body's stomach, slurping, and sucking the large hole in the corpse's abdominal region. The man was _eating the dead body._

_Eating himeating the corpse._ _Oh my God_

Claire stopped short, her eyes widening until it nearly filled her whole face. Her hands suddenly came up to her mouth. She let out a squeaky _gasp._

_Oh Godwhat is going on hereoh Godcannibals?_

The man turned around. 

His face was red in bloodand twisted, _twisted_ beyond possibility. His eyes didn't have pupils in them, nor any form of life whatsoever. This wasn't a _man_ she was looking it atit looked more like a_ monster._ Like a zombie. 

Claire took careful steps back—her legs shook as she did so. Her breathing began cutting away into stuttered breaths. The man ahead of her moaned, opening his mouth wide while blood dribbled off his chin. 

"_Look,_" Claire winced, putting her hands before her. She grimaced at the thing approaching her. "_I don't want any troubleI just—just_"

The man groaned, letting the blood gurgle up his throat. Claire wasn't entirely sure he understood what she said. He continued to lurch toward her with those pupil-less eyes that had no life in them. His arms came up, trying to grab her. 

She backed away toward the window with terrified eyes locked on the cannibal. If she wasn't careful, the man—or _thing_—was going to sink its teeth into her belly and tear her flesh out like what it did to that corpse back there. She reached and grabbed the string to the blinds, pulling at them to make them go up. She hoped for someone out there to see her—a cop, or even some lowly bum—_anybody_. 

The blinds came up, revealing two faces pressed against the window. Their faces were grey—pale from death. Their mouths opened, screaming through the glass and into Claire's petrified ears. She voiced out a small cry and shot back from the window. 

They were all deadthe people, they were allzombies.

The zombie caught up to Claire and seized her, bringing her into its sharp, opened jaws. It was a _real _dead personit was a _real_ zombieIt was all so _real._

_Claire?_

What, Teresa.

I thought you told me there were no such thing as monsters, that they were nothing but manifestations' from Hollywood and crazy writersthey never existed. 

I know, Teresa, I thought so too. 

Then how come you are seeing one now,_ Claire. How come?_

I don't know, honey, I just don't know

42

Leon pulled out his gun, surveying the crowd scuffling towards him. 

Noises that lived in his childhood nightmares filled the street. From under the streetlights, several figures were struggling to reach Leon as he aimed his pistol at them. 

"I want all of you to _hold it right there_!" his quivering voice shouted. Really, he couldn't believe what he was seeingthey all looked like zombies. "_Freeze,_ I say! This is no fucking joke, I _mean it_! I _will_ fire unless all of you stop right there!"

They all continued to move on and lessen their distance between him.

Beside his foot, the woman on the ground abruptly opened her eyes. 

"I said _freeze!_ I'm warning _all_ of you! _Stop _in your fucking tracks before I open fire!" They didn't listen. The bodies still came at him. 

Suddenly, Leon heard something beside his legs. At first, he thought it was a scream, but he soon felt the nudging against his leg. The woman _was alive_. She was grabbing Leon's ankle while sinking her teeth into his leg. He grimaced, gritting his teeth as the thing bit him. His arms sprang to life. 

Leon's arms dove down, aiming at the woman's head. He shot her twice. Her arms immediately sprung away. Blood splattered from under the blazes of the gun. The blazes flashed over and caused mini-explosions rupturing her brain. A pool of blood developed over the twitching body. It spread out in an almost perfect circle within the body of the _zombie._

The zombies ahead of him made indistinct sounds, moaning into the air.

Leon rose his pistol at them. The crowd was closing in. He estimated there were at least seven of themseven _things_ weaving through the street trying to get him. The intensity of his breaths increased. His hands began to shake. 

_Just clear your mind, Leon, just clear that fucking mind—don't let it go shitty!_

The things stood before him, moving slowly, while eager to tear him apart. Leon sidestepped around, backing away. He controlled his breathing, calming himself down. One of them was already a few meters in front of his face. Several more were trailing behind that particular one. Leon's only answer to this perplexing problem came down to this: _Let em have it_.

"All right," Leon said quietly to himself, "I've warned all of you..."

He then let go a flurry of bullets at the corpses. 

He pulled the trigger furiously, aiming at one while swerving to pick out another, sounding out one _long_ continuous _click! click! click! click! _In truth, he hadn't fired a single shot. Leon had spent most of the bullets back at the barn.

_Oh shit._

He frantically brought his thumb at the magazine catch, sending the spent clip diving toward the ground. The sounds ahead of him were growing louder. He could smell their pungent odors now. His hand wildly dug into the pockets behind his vest, desper-ately searching for the 18-bullet magazine. When his fingers found it, the zombie's fingers found his uniform as well. 

Its teeth came down onto the shoulder plate of his uniform, gnawing it while leaving a shine of saliva over the badge. _Get the Hell off of me! _Leon's eyes screamed. He could already feel its canines piercing his skin like a hypodermic syringe bent on releasing poison. But the thing was practically stuck there over his uniform, trying to chomp through the material. It never made it past the plates. Thank God for Kevlar. 

Leon now had the clip in his hand, grimacing from the thing chewing at his shoulder. He slapped the magazine up the butt of his VP70. He yanked the slide, pulling his head away from the zombie as he pressed the barrel into its grimy face. The pressure caused a nib of flesh from its face to squirm from the gun's tip. 

_What the HELL are you doing, Leon?! They never taught you this in Acade—! _

Hush up.

He shut his eyes and pulled the trigger. 

Its head burst in a sea of red. The force of the shot snapped it across the street and left it dead on the asphalt, twitching helplessly. Leon shook his head from the effect the gunshot had on his ears and quickly wiped the blood from his face. He looked up. 

And fired away at the approaching bodies while backing down toward _Emmy's_ diner. He held them off as the bullets began to run out. 

Claire had enough of this. 

When she felt the arms reel in, pulling her face into its menacing jaws, her right hand grew furious. It reached over to the handle of her foot-long knife and yanked it free from its sheath. Claire Redfield then brought it around and swung the 8-inch blade across the zombie's throat, splitting it apart. She split it _wide_ open. 

This time, _it_ was backing away, clawing its throat as the neck opened up in a rush of blood. The cut was _deep_deep enough to cause half of the neck to go limp and bend back like the stem of a dying rose. Its head fell back—the neck became a hinge as it folded with the head's fall. The zombie's tongue wiggled out from the slit in the throat. Blood gushed all over the floor as the thing crashed to the ground. 

Claire swallowed hard when she saw more zombies stepping towards her. 

They filled the diner with mourning noises. Their heads were permanently tilted to the side. Limbs stiff with death, their bodies lurched clumsily. Already, they were getting closer to where Claire was. 

She backed away, taking small glances behind her to make sure she wasn't surrounded. She saw a door back there. Maybe she could just escape through that door and get the Hell away from these things. She neared it, quickly backstepping toward its position. But just when she managed to do it, so did the zombies facing her. Claire lashed away with her knife, watching it slice a few fingers off while bringing red lines all over their arms. Blood flew in all directions. It laced the walls with the red liquid. It left a portion of the wall speckled in blood. 

Can't hack them to pieces forever, her thoughts swarmed,_ get out, now! Break through that door before its_ their _turn to hack _you_ to pieces!_ She then quickly leapt back and twisted the knob to the door behind her and burst outside, spinning around to ready her escape. She suddenly froze in the middle of her steps. Her eyes widened in horror.

Claire Redfield found herself staring down the barrel of a handgun. 

43

"_Get down_!" Leon shouted. 

The girl wearing the funky biker outfit suddenly broke out in a silent scream as her arms rose to shield her face. Leon saw it all in slow-motion. Her slender body dropped, diving as her nice legs bent low. He saw her ponytail fling upward as if she had been falling down—every brown strand silky as they rushed right through the air. As he watched her descend into a crouch, he saw the corpse with its arms hung out to grab the girl. Its mouth was wide open, dripping with the red stuff. Leon let three bullets spatter from his gun, watching the flashes from his barrel light up in the zombie's eyes. The trio of lead expenditures spiraled out and drilled through its head, exiting from its back in three wonderful spasms of blood. The corpse fell back, _thudding_ against the floor in a pool of blood. 

Leon looked down at the girl, whose face was wrapped beneath her arms. Actually, she was more a _woman_ than a girl. She had a huge Bowie knife in her right hand. Damn, the chick must know how to fight. He held out his hand when her face came out from under her arms. 

"Sorry about that," Leon said stiffly, "but _look_—we gotta head to the station where it's safe. With the number of those things around here, you're not gonna make it without me. So you in or not?"

The woman blinked a little as she looked up at him. Her blue eyes were terrified, but pretty. Actually, she was _damn pretty_. She looked like one of those types that always got the cover of _YM_which Leon didn't mind checking out this very moment. This one was like an angel. But for the moment, angelic looks and sexy goddesses were things that had to be kept afar—they had to get out of here, _fast._

She suddenly took his hand and he hoisted her up. 

"You try anything stupid that can us killed" she threatened, "and I'll gut you like a fish, understand?" 

Leon lifted his eyebrows at her. "Sure thing, ma'am." 

They then left for his car. 

44

Before Nathan lost his footing and crashed to the ground, he saw dozens of those things filling up the hall ahead of him. 

He shot his hands out toward the linoleum coming up his face. His body impacted with the ground. Nathan wriggled helplessly as the swarm of corpses inched closer. He looked back at what grabbed his ankle. 

The thing opened its mouth and bit down into Nathan's right leg, drawing blood. His blood smeared all over its lips as it groaned aberrant noises. Nathan screamed again, feeling the pain spread through his leg and debilitate his movement. He kicked at it weakly. 

"Get your fucking mouth off _me_!" 

Nathan felt it bite down _harder_, tearing the flesh from his leg. The pain in this leg was now beyond anything he could withstand. He let out another cry of pain that echoed past the hall without reply. He was alone down here, and nobody was going to help him. 

The horde was now a few yards away

His hands groped around the shadows for something—_anything_ he could use as a weapon. Surely, if his hands could find a pole or something

The monster's jaws drew away and came down over his shin. 

Nathan grit his teeth, kicking up into the monster's face, marginally hurting it. The pain weakened his attacks. The thing then grasped his leg once again and tore a strip of skin from his shin, bringing more blood around the area.

"_No_!" Nathan screamed, bringing his fingers around a post used for hanging pharmaceuticals. The metallic pole tipped over and fell onto its side. Nathan seized it with both hands, bringing it over him and gripped it in the same manner a plumber held a plunger. He aimed for the thing's head, yelling in blind fury before ramming the post through it. 

The tip of the pole _mashed_ into its head, lancing a red hole through it. He pulled it back and rammed again, madly jabbing the same spot with overflowed frenzy. He speared it through its eye, its nose, its cheeks, its throat, and its brain. Blood splattered against Nathan's legs as he rammed it again—and again—and again—and again—and—

_Fucking again!_

He continued with the movement, showing his teeth in delirious rage as he bloodied the thing's head into a pulp. When it ceased to harm him, he slowly got up and faced the oncoming threat ahead of him. It was consisted of at least four more. 

Nathan panted, bringing in shallow breaths as his heart hammered his chest. He held the post in his hands, eyeing the monsters. 

_Orzombies they looked like._

The zombies, each drenched in blood, lurched toward Nathan's position. The blood colored many of them red. Their faces were distorted beyond comprehension. They were all here for himhere because they were hungry, hungry for _live_ human flesh.

Nathan's hands squeezed hard against the pole, adding more grip to it. The blood from the zombie dripped from the pole like mucus from a runny nose. He took a few steps toward the zombies and winded back, swinging up into their faces. 

The tip contacted with one of them across the mouth, detaching the lower jaw in a cascade of blood. It spun away and bounced off the wall. The zombie flew sideways several feet, knocked off its footing for a while, before continuing towards Nathan again—its mouth leaking with blood. 

Nathan drew a breath of despair. _He had to decapitate them in order to kill them._ That was what he had to do. It worked in the moviesit'd probably work here too. But shit, he couldn't do all that using this slim pole! 

He brought the pole back and swung again. 

One of them caught it. _One of them actually caught it!_

Nathan pulled back at the pole, tugging at it with dying strength. The pain in his leg was killing him. He tried pulling the pole back from the zombie's grasp, but the thing had its hands firmly put onto the thing. It yanked it out of Nathan's hands. 

_They were frail, but they were strongquick in a few of their movements_

"Y-you can have it," Nathan surrendered. He backed away and forced himself around and tried to run. The pain in his legs screamed up his head again. He bit down, attempting to force away the pain using his will to survive. He dashed back down the hall to where the woman with the tubes in her face laid. His dashes became pathetic hops. 

_Gotta rungotta get out of here_

The lip-less zombie that had almost killed Nathan appeared around the corner.

He gasped with widened eyes as he ducked under its swiping arms and ran past it. For the moment, it was wonderful to be short. If Nathan had been taller, the thing would have had him seized by the neck. 

He now limped through the darkness of an empty hallway, hearing more moans echoing from across him. It was as if they were all picking up his scent. From every corner, he saw several shadows appear. The sight of them made him change directions around the place. 

He had to find the door that led to the stairwayhe had to get out of here.

A few doorways passed him. Nathan tried all of them. They were locked. He tried searching for the door leading to the stairs, but the damn entrance was hidden some-where. He should have studied this floor more thoroughly during his volunteer days. The sounds of the dead began to intensify, sounding closer than they really were. It came from all directions. Nathan was trapped. 

He limped into a space in the middle of the hall, resting his back against a wall as the sounds increased. He let himself slide down, sitting on the floor while the zombies went around the corners after him. Some of them moved fast—others moved as slow as frozen molasses. Nathan waited. He pressed his palms against the wounds, adding pressure to them. His hands filled up with blood. It filled the spaces between his fingers and ran off the back of his hand, dripping onto the floor. 

The moans grew louder. Nathan continued to wait. 

He continued to wait until this bad dream came to an end. He wanted to wake up from all of it. This wasn't happening—it was all a nightmare he was having. It had to be. He was still in the elevator, and everything was going by as normal as it should be. There were no living corpses walking around eating live people, and Washington Hospital was just going through another routine emergency that was to end _now_. Nathan Lieu was going to wake up from this silly dream to the _real_ world where the power was back on, and he was to go home and get ready for school tomorrow. There weren't any zombies, and Nathan hadn't killed two of them—they were all part of the nightmare he was having now__

Nathan squeezed his ankle, grimacing from the pain. If the whole thing was a dream, why couldn't he just wake up once he "pinched" himself? Why, dammit, _why_?!

Shadows appeared in front of himseveral seconds before they came. 

Nathan didn't care. He simply sighed, sitting there. 

He saw a heap of flesh in the corner of the space he sat in. A man's head—probably some guy in his forties—protruded from the bloody mass. His eyes were widened in terror, and his mouth was opened, locked in a scream. Nathan remembered seeing the guy a few times during volunteer work. He was a doctor. Across his short beard, blood moistened the fur-like hair on his face. His name, Nathan tried to think, was Dr. West—that was the name. He liked it when people just called him _West_. He had a girlfriend named Nina, who was a nurse on the third floor. They both loved each other very much. Nathan wondered where she was _now_.

They appeared before him, scuffling slowly while watching him with their whitened eyes. 

Nathan sat there, allowing the distance between him and the zombies narrow down until it became a slit. He continued to wait. 

They grabbed him and pulled him up, biting at him and tearing his flesh. 

Nathan closed his eyes. 

45

When they arrived to the car, Claire took the passenger side while the cop hopped right into the driver's seat. They were running out of time. The zombies were approaching the car in increasing numbers. Once Claire was inside, she took a disgusted glance at the backseat of the car. There was a dead body lying in the back. Its eyes were open, silently staring at her with dead eyes. 

"Um," Claire mumbled, "there's a dead body in your—"

"Oh," the man shrugged, slamming the car door, "don't worry about that. He's one of mine."

She threw a questioned glance at him. Was he insane or something? Maybe he was one of those rent-a-cops that had too many bumps on the head during duty—shit, she didn't know. She'd best ask to make sure. 

"You're a cop, right?" Claire asked, raising her eyelids at him. "I mean, I was just wonder—"

"Yep," he replied, strapping on his seatbelt, "_first day on the job_—pretty fucking great, huh? Name's Leon Kennedy."

Claire stared at him dumbfoundedly, widening her eyes. Guess he was a cop all right—a rookie cop, but a police officer of some sort by the least. She buckled her safety belt, nodding. "Claire RedfieldI'm looking for my brother."

"Well," he said while shifting gears, "it's a damn pleasure to serve you, Claire, you hold on tight." 

The car then accelerated, running over the dead woman and nicking a zombie on the hip, hurling it off the side of the road. It landed with its hipbones disjointed. The others reached out with their arms, trying to grab the car as it sped off toward the _Taxago_ station. 

So _Claire_ was her namenice. Leon swerved around a corner and missed a zombie trying to grab the car. Damn were they fast whenever it came to grabbing things. It almost scared him half to death to find them crowded around places chasing them. It seemed as if they were all tuned together to hunt the both of them. He passed the _Taxago_ station to his right before noticing something ahead of them. The road leading into the Northeast Section—the safe route—was blocked off by dozens of cars. Smoke rose from the vehicles as flames cooked the barricade. There was no way they were going to get through. _Shit. _He was now forced to take the route leading directly into the _Northern_ Section—the most crowded, congested area in the whole city. And Downtown Ryuken Street was _filled_ with cars

Leon braked, causing the car to skid to a stop in the middle of the street. 

Claire let out a gasp beside him. "Why the Hell did you stop?"

"That road up there is blocked," he pointed. "We gotta take the other route back there—it leads to the Northern Section, which I don't think will be very pretty."

She looked in the direction he pointed to. Around the gas station, hundreds of zombies were making their way down towards the car. _Hundreds. _For them to get on that road, they would have to drive through that area. Oh my God. 

"There is _no way_ we're gonna get past that," Claire shook her head, "there's just_too many of them_!"

"Never enough to get in my way" Leon replied, his eyes gleaming. He punched the stick to D and slammed the gas pedal. The car roared to life—its tires skidding the street. It accelerated, gathering more speed as it closed in on the horde of corpses ahead. The needles on the instrument panel rose. Leon held the wheel firmly, concentrating on the opening within the crowd. He saw a small gap and focused the car into it. He was gonna make it; they were gonna make it. This car was gonna ram through it. 

"You know, if you fear the sight of blood," he said while turning to face Claire, "I suggest it'd be best you closed your eyes."

She took a deep breath under the drone of the engine and shut her eyelids. 

The car zoomed through the open street, slicing the air and narrowing its distance from the gas station. The living dead loomed ahead. They quickly expanded in size as they neared. Leon turned his head away to brace the impact. A crowd of at least twelve stood in the waythen behind them, _twenty_—and beneath that, he didn't know. 

The _Chevy Caprice_ slammed through the bodies, splashing blood all over the windshield. Leon kept his foot on the gas. He heard a crash as the glass cracked. Blood oozed through the spider webs appearing over it. Another crash rocked the car. It jolted Leon's body as he grit his teeth to keep the wheel in place. They hit four more, sending their burst remains from the raging automobile. A detached arm spun off the roof. A head rolled from the hood. A pair of legs struck the headlights, shattering them. Leon then stomped on the brake. The car skidded off, stopping in a vacant space in the middle of the road that lead to the Northern Section. Claire opened her eyes, noticing where they were. 

"We'vemade it," she said, her eyes lighting up, "Leon, you just remind me, the next time you try anything stupid, I won't _have _to gut you, okay? I owe you one." She squeezed out a smile. For a moment she didn't believe she actually did that. 

Leon smiled back. "You got that." He then stepped out of the car.

Below _Taxago's_ glowing sign, the zombies changed courses, turning around to limp in the direction of the car. They all saw him exit the vehicle. A small gap in the crowd was visible from where the car plowed through. The army of corpses continued to make their way down to the car from the gas station. They were unwary of the gas leakage behind them, where gasoline had been spewing from a broken pump for a while. The yellowish liquid splurged from an opening that ultimately lead into the tank underground. It splashed everywhere, trailing off in various directions. Some of the fuel formed a river snaking down toward the car, forming a thick puddle. The zombies continued to moan through the night as they advanced. They wanted the two survivors; they wanted to devour and feed off their bloody remains.

Leon dug into his pocket and pulled out his lighter. Over its gold body, his initials were embroidered over it. He flicked open the cap and sparked the flame from its port-hole. It wavered around the small nozzle searching for something to combust. Leon bent down and lit the puddle of gasoline by his foot. 

When it lit, he saw the bluish aura spread from the flame. The flame followed the trail of gasoline, moving past the shuffling feet of zombies toward the leaking pump in the station. Leon had several seconds to leave. He turned and hopped into his car.

Claire watched him. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. He—this cop— was about to ignite the whole station. 

"I hate _Taxago_," he said while shifting the transmission and putting on his seat-belt, "their prices are too high."

"I see," she nodded in agreement. _Crazy cop,_ her thoughts added. 

The flames scoured the ground, zooming closer to the source. It reached the vomiting pump, crawling high into the air and catching the liquid afire. Before it dove down into the gas pump, exploding the entire station, it formed a brilliant, fizzled decoration over the spewing gas that looked like the top of a palm tree. 

Claire squinted from the explosion brightening the night sky. She saw the gas pump ignite in a ball of flames. A thunderous _rumble_ followed that. As the car sped away, the whole ground suddenly came up in an eruption of rolling fire. The concrete from the station came up also. Zombies were thrown in the air while being engulfed from the rush of flames. A few of them emerged from the inferno coated in licking flames, looking like the human-torch character from _The Fantastic Four_. Claire drew a deep breath.

The station exploded again. The towering _Taxago _sign swayed upon its base and fell over the station, slamming into the ground in a shower of sparks and debris. It crushed a couple zombies along the way, smothering them as the serrated edges slashed them to ribbons. An enormous mass of rising flames came up, forming a mushroom cloud that filled the sky. 

The car rushed past the Raccoon City limits sign. Claire saw bullet holes along with patches of blood decorating the sign. She stared at it, wondering what was left of this city. She heard another thunderous roar from behind as the station lit up in another fiery explosion. The windshield wipers came on, swiping blood from the glass. 

"Oh, and I forgot to mention" Leon said while keeping his eye on the road, "welcome to Raccoon City." 

Claire gave him another perplexing look. "Thanks." 

46

Sherry Birkin was aware of the fine line between fact and fiction. It was easy: fact was what's real; fiction was what's fake. She was old enough to tell the difference and was able to distinguish them apart like night and day. 

But what she was experiencing now blurred everything. 

She remembered watching zombies on television. She once came upon a movie called _Night of the Living Dead_, where dead bodies came alive and began to eat the living. She watched the black and white version, and had trouble falling asleep that night. She just couldn't live with the possibility of being eaten alive by those_things._ (_They're coming to _get you,_ Sherry!_) Just imagining them lumbering around, waiting for you to screw up disturbed her. The way their tilted heads stared at you through the windows at night, watching you, made her tremble. Watching them eat other helpless, screaming victims was worse. Knowing they were real, along with the fact that they were stronger and faster than the ones played by actors on TV completely reduced her to a state of trauma. 

Her hands shook as she heard the moans from the hallways. Even though she was in the ceiling vents, they somehow knew she was up there. They crowded around areas beneath her, staring up as the taller ones tried reaching for her. Whenever she saw them, they made eye contact. It seemed as if she could never hide from them. They were always _looking for her_. 

The Aid Spray's contents sloshed while she crawled through the tunnel. Her mother had always told her to spray herself whenever she got hurt, and the infection would go away. Not only would it do that, but it actually _sealed_ the wound together like magic. She remembered watching the cut on her finger vanish when she first tried it. Sherry often wondered why the spray never became popular, since whatever in it was so useful. 

The noises followed her from belowwavering around the halls, encouraging her to screw up so they could consume her. She moved faster, squeezing her intense breaths to wheezes. She saw dozens of dead bodies strewn all over the ground floor as she passed over the meshed vent ports. The sight of them made her crawl faster, creating that _buh-bump, buh-bump _sound as the sheet metal supporting her bent inward and outward. 

She began to see a faint light nearing the end of the tunnel. It looked like a well-lit room was down there. If it was what she thought it was, then she could just make her way and slide down the hole in the vent and into that room. That sounded like a good idea. 

Sherry then crawled to that destination, keeping that idea in her head. Her hands were sweaty; they were slippery against the smooth, aluminum sheeting. Her knees were beginning to ache from being in this crawling position for so long. She hoped to sit herself down somewhere before her pain got any worse. 

The vent uttered a _creak!_ beneath her. She stopped, turning her head around.

It was starting to give away

Sherry winced, breathing heavily as she looked around. _Oh please, not now, not now, don't break away now_

From under her frightened self, the aluminum sheeting burst open, causing her to slip out and fall in the air. She let out a short scream that was cut short as her twelve-year-old body smashed against the ground. Her knees hit first, engulfing her legs in icy pain. Once she felt that, her hands came down and cushioned her fall.

Sherry gripped her knees, gasping from the fall. She looked up. 

The zombies shot their hands out and tried to grab her. Despite the pain, Sherry leapt to her feet and ran back down the hall, screaming. The gnarled hands missed her. Sherry screamed again, raising her voice to a gasping shriek. She hoped for someone in this godforsaken hospital to hear her. She hoped for it _real bad._

When Nathan felt the pain tearing through his flesh, he was _positive_ this was no dream. In fact, he was so sure, it jolted him awake from his suicidal behavior. 

The fuck were you thinking, his conscience cried out, _stupid—so fucking stupid of you to trap yourself here while saying hey, it's all a biiiig, baaaaad dream.' Not only are you gonna die, my boy, but you're gonna die because of something stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Wake up, dammit!_

And that was when he heard the scream. 

You hear that, you suicidal son of a bitch? That's the scream of life_ calling your name. _Life! _Stop gluing your ass to the floor while the undead are tearing you up. Get to work! Go find some weapon and answer that call of life!_

"That ain't the scream of life," Nathan groaned to himself, "it's a little girl."

He opened his eyes and burst to his feet. He was up. 

But they were up around him also. 

The things had already tore a considerable amount of skin from his left arm. One of their jaws came down and scooped a large patch of skin to its mouth. Nathan screamed. His right shoulder sensed a large mouth tearing some flesh from that section as well. Blood was pouring all around him, and pain was practically seizing him by the collars. 

He screamed again, trying not to die from shock. He let his adrenaline become his painkillers. Nathan shook the zombies away, madly swinging his arms. Blood from his wounds stretched in the air and shattered into little droplets.

One grabbed his left hand and bit into his fingers. Nathan shrieked, drawing his other arm back and ran his fingers through its eyes. His fingers _squished_ through the rotting eyeballs. He hooked it back, bringing out blood and clear liquid from its eyes. Its jaws let go of his hand. Nathan pulled it back and quickly glanced at it, making sure he hadn't lost any fingers in the process. Blood sluiced down his arm. He was nearly covered with it. 

More of them grabbed him; they now filled the entire space he was trapped in. Nathan had to get to where that scream came from. He shook them off, pushing them away as more walked forward to replace their fallen brethren. He groaned furiously. He dropped to the floor. Out of all the things he could think ofhe simply _dropped to the floor_. 

Actually, it was a good idea. 

Using leverage from the wall behind him, he pushed with his foot and slid under the zombies, squeezing his way through their legs. A few of them caught his ankle, but for some reason they let go once he made it farther through them. Nathan left a trail of smeared blood on the floor as he slid over it. He tried not to lay eyes on it. 

Once he freed himself, he got up and tried to run, noticing there were five zombies trailing behind him. Nathan was now moving as slow as ever—he was limping like an old man, dragging his leg as he clutched his shoulder and arm. In terms of speed, he didn't have much in him. He wouldn't be surprised if a few of them caught up to him and snatched him away. 

He heard more of the girl's screams from down the hall, Nathan limped to it. 

As he neared its origin, he began to feel dizzy, as if he was about to pass out. The world spun around him. Wherever his wounds were, it made his limbs numb. Whatever it was, he continued on with it until he saw the girl appear from around the corner. Her face was pale beyond fear, but had enough color to be human-looking. After studying her face a bit longer, he noticed it was the girl with the dog earlier in the day. The quiet girl named Sherry. 

Nathan reached an arm out, leaning forward. "_Hey,_" he groaned, "_Sherry_"

She stopped in front of him, eyes widened as she saw the zombies behind him. Behind her, Nathan could see her own pack of zombies pursuing her as well. They were surrounded. 

She took his hand. "Q-q-quick," she stuttered a bit, "go down this way, I-I think it'll be safe." She then pulled him, leading him down the hall forking from the one they were in. 

Nathan wearily followed wherever she led him. He limped terribly. 

"C'mon," she cried, tugging harder, "fasteror they'll get us!"

He widened his limps, nearly hopping as he went along. He looked back and saw their pursuers come together and turn, facing their position. 

He felt Sherry adding more to her pulls. The gold locket suspended from her chain bobbed rhythmically. Her short, blonde hair swung in the same way. 

"Hurry!"

Nathan pushed himself harder; it seemed like he lost feeling in both legs already. The zombies were now nearing a few feet away. Nathan could already feel the touch of their cold fingers against his neck. 

Sherry found the door to the lounge. She grasped the doorknob with her fingers and pushed the door open, dragging Nathan in with her. His weight was immense—it felt more like pulling a horse than an actual person. His body crossed the threshold of the doorway once she made it through. As he entered the lounge, shadows began appearing before the entrance. Sherry gasped, running to the door. If they made it through, the both of them were goners.

"_Close the door_!" Sherry shrieked, jittering wildly, "_help me close the door_!" 

Nathan frantically brought himself behind the wooden surface, bringing his hands over its edges. He leaned against it, pushing it forward. The heavyset door swung back on its hinges. Nathan could hear the moans as they closed the door. Between the narrowing slit of the doorway, he could see them peering inside. 

An arm shot through the gap, knocking them back a little. It probed for something to grab. Sherry screamed, pushing against the door with a reddening face. Nathan pulled his lips back, showing his teeth. The skinless arm hopped around and landed on his left shoulder. Its fingers gripped his shirt and pulled, stretching the linen. 

"Oh, _Hell_ no!" Nathan clamored. He jerked the door back, knocking Sherry off in the process, and slammed his body against the door. It let go of him. He then drew back again and threw his shoulder back into it, ramming through. Blood ran off the door's side. Nathan repeated the movement. More blood oozed off, trickling down. The arm pulled itself back, and Nathan slammed the door closed. He fell to the floor, gasping for air. They did it. They were away from themfor now. 

"We mustn't stay here too long," Sherry said quietly, "they could break through that door."

Nathan widened his eyes at her. "_What,_ they can do that?"

She nodded. They then looked at the door. 

Hammering _thuds_ trembled it. A faint _crack_ bellowed from the wood. 

47

"So you're telling me you don't have the _faintest_ idea of what went on around here," Claire asked skeptically. 

Leon cursed as high-pitched static screamed from the intercom. "Radio ain't workin," he scowled. He then nodded while bringing his eyes to the road. "Yeah, all I heard before I left was something about a contamination caused by this silly _fuck_ behind us. Other than that," he shook his head, "I don't know."

Claire looked behind her and saw the corpse. Its blank eyes watched her. She heard about _The MeatHook Mangler _on the news the other day. They said on their report that he was responsible for several crimes including manslaughter and terrorism. There were even rumors of him having connections to some soda company. Claire never imagined she would actually find herself face to face with his dead bodylet alone chased by actual zombies.

"Do you believe what's going on in this town," Claire asked without looking at Leon. "You know, about the zombies everywhere."

He sighed. "I wish I didn'tthen it could all turn out to be some dream."

Claire nodded a bit, looking down. She then looked at him, noticing his features. 

Despite his floppy hairstyle, Leon looked a bit cute. She knew she was going to regret ever thinking about that, but she really thought so. He didn't look as good as Ethan, but he was desirable in a few points. He wore a _strange_ uniform, though. It was this tight, blue outfit with some bulletproof material over it. On both his shoulders, she saw what looked like some insignia of the department badge sewn there. Under that silly uniform, she could make out a built, somewhat muscular frame. Claire then took her eyes off him. 

"So I take the both of us agree that we're against _zombies_, right?" Leon asked, turning his head at her.

"Yeah, I guess," she nodded. "I mean, they walk like they do in the movieseat human fleshdie by decapitation."

"How bout if you get bitten, would you become one?"

They remained silent for a while. It was evident they didn't know. 

"Did any of them get to you?" Claire asked.

Leon shook his head. "No, one of them almost had me, but it never made it past my clothes. How bout you?"

Claire examined herself, checking to see if any of them left stray marks around her. "Nope," she answered.

"Then we're both set," Leon said, "just don't get yourself bitten. Simple, just like that." 

_Simple, just like that. _

A sneer suddenly appeared behind Claire's lips. That was Bartowen's phrase. He always said that whenever he addressed the rules. Whenever the phrase came up, she felt like slitting the speaker's throat. But she knew Leon had no part with Bartowenshe doubted the cop even heard of the name. She tried to cool herself down. 

He looked at her. "You all right there? You look a little tense."

Claire shook her head, plastering a fake smile. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Well whatever it is, you tell me, since I can't afford to have any secrets. We're in a tight situation here, and if we keep anything _big_ from each other, it'll bring nothing but trouble. So no more secrets—you gonna keep your word?"

She stared at him for a while before replying. "Yeah," she said, "I will."

"Good, because I can't live with thatit's just intolerable, you know?"

Claire nodded. Beside her legs, far from his sight, she crossed her fingers. There were a few exceptions to her promise with him. He was never going to know about Bartowen. She was to keep that secret for as long as possible. 

The _Caprice_ braked, swerving around the corner headed toward Downtown Ryuken Street. The sound it made as the tires skidded the ground echoed through the silence of the city. Zombies picked up the sound from blocks away. They turned their heads and slugged their way down its direction. 

Far behind the _Caprice_, a gas truck cruised past the signs of the Northern Section, heading toward the black and white squad car. The driver, whose name was Bill Mud-stone, (Dey chall mhee tha _stoned_ mudsta!) sat behind the wheel with his arms to his side. He hadn't touched the wheel for sometimesince he was _dead_, momentarily. As Mudstone began to change, he remembered his incident at the _Taxago_ station. 

Bill hadn't known about the incident in Raccoon until he witnessed the odd behavior of the people up there. Here he was, a forty-five year-old trucker with six kids, a nagging wife, three appearances on _Springer_, and a trailer that was about as old as he was. How strange could the life of "tha _stoned_ mudsta" get? Speaking in absolute sarcasm, Mudstone had the most average life of any American fat-ass. He was the county drunk, being one of the few who enjoyed cussing his wife out in public. He had bacon and rare eggs every morning despite his doctor's warnings. He never saw his kids—in fact, he never even met his sixth runt! He was a monster to housewives across America, but he was a hero to his _Monday Night Football_ friends back at the bar. 

What more could Mudstone want besides a big bite in the arm?

Bill had fond memories of _Taxago_. Working in part for _Exxon,_ he enjoyed stopping by late at night to piss over _Taxago's _flashy sign. He never really had much against the gas station, but what the Hell, there was nothing like a little corporate rivalry behind enemy lines. 

And it so happened that the shit got him killed. 

When he arrived to Raccoon, the burning sensation in his ass increased. Bill suddenly found to his horror that he needed to take a shit, _quick_. He snickered at a thought of actually _shitting_ at the _Taxago_ station looming ahead of him. He didn't mean shitting there, as in going to their fucking lavatory or anythinghe was gonna shit right _on_ their station! What fucking fun!

So Bill held his crap in and stopped in the middle of the station, getting out the car before pulling down his pants to shit beside their gas pumps. He swore to himself, out of all the fucking times he's taken a shit, this particular shit was by far the best shit in his life. It was probably better than sex, but any form of shitting was better than sex with his wife. That was how far the bitch had edged over in the ugliness department. The sad woman aged by the minute. 

Once Bill finished taking his shit, eyeing around for any spectators, he ran to the other side of his vehicle and suddenly happened upon the ugliest store clerk to ever walk the face of the earth. I mean, this guy was a freak. His face was missing so many patches of skin, it wasn't even funny. The color of his face was a stark white, and his eyes were, it looked like, _clear_. Another thing about him was that he was probably mentally retarded or something as he kept moaning whenever he came near.

And along with that, he bit a good-sized chunk off of Bill's arm. 

"You crazy _fuck_!" Bill hollered, swiping his body off. 

He threw the guy—or thing—back, losing a fist-sized piece of his biceps in the process. Blood squirted in a spray of droplets. Bill growled—not the same growl when he got kinky in bed, but a furious _roar._ He got the crazy gas manager flying off, shattering a window before falling on his back. The son of a bitch soon got back to his feet. 

At the sight of that, Bill just leapt into his car—he didn't know what the Hell he was dealing with here, but it was some scary shit. The gash on his arm threw blood all over his shirt. It was a white shirt too, damn.

"_Bastard, fucking maniac,_" he growled, starting the car,_ "why'd he bite me_?!"

He slammed his foot down the gas pedal and aimed his truck for a gas pump—he wanted to do a little "return of bad service." He nicked it with the front fender. The gas pump burst open, spewing the shitty _Taxago _fuel all over the street. Bill just wished he had a lighter so he could combust the station, but whatever was back there scared all the shit from him he couldn't even think about it. 

After that happened, he began to feel dazed as if he had several shots with the bong—and moments later, _voila!_ Here he was, sitting dead with his hands at his side as he speared straight through the street toward the black and white squad car. 

48

"Could you open that case real quick," Leon said, throwing a glance over to Claire. 

She looked at him. "You mean the glove compartment?" 

"Yeah."

Claire pulled the lever, bringing down its hinged door. The light came on in the space, lighting up what she saw inside. It was a guna handgun. 

"There's a gun inside," she said, eyeing the silver weapon. 

Leon smiled. "No shit there's a gun insidebetter take it with you, might increase your life expectancy. Have you ever used one before?"

Claire took it out, holding it before her eyes. She checked both sides of the firearm. It was a Browning HP. It had a capacity of thirteen 9x19 parabellum rounds—less than the eighteen in Leon's Heckler & Kotch. She flicked off the safety and pressed the magazine catch with a stroke of her thumb. The clip slid out. Claire held it, making sure there were thirteen bullets before slapping it back in place. She pulled back the slide and let go, snapping the bullet into the chamber. It made a metallic slapping sound. 

"Whoa, so I take you can shoot pimentos from olives at ten meters as well?" Leon asked, amazed.

"Fifteen meters," Claire answered, holding the gun out before her. She closed one eye and stared down the fore sights, making sure everything was aligned and straight. Perfect. Looked as if he hadn't given her a piece of shit as she thought so at first. 

"I'm impressed," Leon commented, eyeing the road. "So I can call you Lara Croft, right?" 

Claire lowered her gun and smirked. "Just call me Claire Redfield," she said. "I hate that Euro bitch—her breasts are too big, and she doesn't look a thing like me." 

"Oh, you know I was just joking—no offense there." 

"None taken," she said, staring at the gun. "And by the way, thanks for the Browning, Leon. I enjoy your hospitality, really."

Leon smiled again. This Claire was charming up by the minute. "Actually, I thank _you_ for being there at the right time," he said awkwardly. He didn't really get what he just said, but he hoped it was enough to make her feel better—she was looking a bit too grim already. 

"Um, thanks," he heard her say. She simply gave him one of those puzzled looks.

"Well, I actually meant" Leon paused, sighing. "Never mind," he chuckled. 

A pair of arms grabbed him from behind. They felt cold and bloody.

"_No_!" Leon lost control of the car, swerving it off the road to speed through a trash can. The aluminum cylinder flipped over the bumper and flew into the windshield, spreading bits of glass all over them. Once he knew the zombie was Kyle Somers resurrected in some miraculous way, he floored the car. That's right, he floored the fucking car!

The wheels spun faster, pushing the hunk of metal to top speed.

The mouth that belonged to Kyle opened wide, diving over Leon's neck. Claire leered back and watched in horror. She was paralyzed in fear. The two struggled as Leon shook away the ravenous jaws. 

The _Caprice_ entered a wide alley, zigzagging within the space. It swerved left, then rightinto the wall, grinding its side against the brick building. Sparks showered off in brilliant cascades. The passenger window shattered. Claire shielded her face from the flying glass. Leon yelled, pulling out his pistol. Claire raised her own pistol at Kyle. She aimed for his head. The car rocked, throwing them in various directions. The zombie's arms struck her, knocking her gun off. Leon screamed, swinging the wheel around. He stomped on the brake, swiping the wheel around as far as he could. 

The car spun , dizzying the both of them as the world momentarily blurred. The back of the _Caprice_ struck a sign, throwing everybody back. Leon and Claire crashed backwards against the cushioning of their seats. Kyle flew from the back window of the car, shattering through the glass and into the tabs of the street sign, where it impaled him across the stomach. He hung there upside down. Protruding from his abdomen, covered with blood, the sign read: **Downtown Ryuken Street**. 

Leon shook his head, touching his neck. He turned and looked at Claire. 

"You all right?"

Claire swiped some glass off herself. "_Still in one piece_," she voiced. "How bout you?"

"_Holy shit_!" 

Claire gasped. "What—_what_?!"

"_That fucker's gonna ram us_!"

Bill Mudstone's truck headed straight for the police car. He was no longer "tha _stoned mudsta_." He was technically referred to as a _zombie_. His frost white face stared from behind the windshield in an eerie calm. Full of _Exxon _fuel, (and not _Taxago's_) the tanker moved like a train, zooming unscathed toward its destination. It struck a two-door along the way, sending the cheap car spinning off. Nothing was going to stop it from reaching the squad car. _Nothing._

"_Get the Hell out_!" Leon clamored, shoving his car door open. From the side of his eye, he saw Claire doing the same. He just hoped she was faster than he was, since that gas truck was heading _fast_. 

The truck grew larger, revealing its flame decals that resembled the ones on Claire's bike.

They parted ways from the car, going their own respectable directions. Leon rolled off from the driver's side; Claire leapt from the passenger side. And the truck smashed into Leon's beloved car.

The black and white _Caprice_ crushed together like an aluminum can in a trash compactor. Leon saw it in slow motion. The gas truck ran into it, flattening the car as it rolled off and fell over to its side, mashing itself against the building. The two large tanks of gas rammed each other, still traveling as objects in motion tend to stay in motion. Obeying the laws of physics, the tanks crashed into the truck. 

And exploded. 

Leon dove forward, leaping as far as possible from the explosion. Flames burst from the tank, filling the sky with raging heat. The noise rumbled the silence of the street. The entire area lit up. It cast a red-orange tint all over the corner of Downtown Ryuken Street. 

Leon took a few steps toward the wreck. He couldn't see anything but a wall of flame. "Claire!"

It took a few seconds for her to reply. 

"_Leon_!" a faint voice answered. 

"We're sealed from each other—there's no way I can get over there! Head to the station where it's safe, I'll meet you there!"

After a few seconds, he heard her voice again. "_Where's the station_?! " 

"You're close to it! Just pass the shed and the retail shop!"

"_Okay, I'll do that_!_ I'll see you there, then!_" 

_Yeah, if only I can make it there also,_ Leon thought. He then backed away from the burning cars, which brightened the dark street. To his left, a tailor by the name of ARUKAS welcomed him, along with _Yuki's Electronics Boutique_ on the corner to his right. He had his gun in his hand now. It was fully loaded with 18 slugs. He had an extra clip to go along with that. He was alone now. 

Alone with strange noises surrounding him. 

49

Claire rose her gun at the man approaching her. He was wearing a black, hooded sweater and some blue jeans. Typical clothes, despite being a bit outdated. But he was missing an arm. Claire studied the zombie behind her pistol sights. The whiteness from its bone glowed from within the red of its socket. Its remaining arm reached for Claire, hands opened, splaying its fingers. Spots of gnashed flesh and muscle tissue dotted the zombie's skin. It lurched for her, inching its way like a wounded animal. 

Claire kept her aim on it, realizing she only had thirteen bullets. 

_They moved so slowyou could just run right past them. _

And that's what she did. She ran from them. 

Its arm swiped for her and missed, knocking itself off balance. Two more were lumbering ahead, reaching out to grab her. Their hands didn't even come close. Claire zipped by all of them as if they were nothing but statues. She continued to run, staying as far away from them as possible. She still couldn't believe the entire city was full of these thingsthese _zombies_it just didn't seem right. 

She passed a hotdog stand advertising the new _Blue Coke_. It was crushed in the midst of two cars. The light from the fires helped orient her more. She kept on running until a motorcycle lying on its side appeared. Road blocks were positioned behind the bike, along with an old car that had stopped before a lamppost. A gate was to her right. 

Claire immediately opened it, hearing it creak around its hinges. She slammed it back in place. The dead followed her, but were trapped as they tried beating down the gate. All they did was shake it. She then found herself in the back entrance of some store. 

A crushed Mack truck stood in ruin against the store. It looked like a giant wad of aluminum foil. To her left, another doorway stood there. Claire ran to it, noticing what it was. It was a shed. 

_You're close to it! Just pass the shed and the retail shop!_

Claire tried the door, noticing it was unlocked and opened it before going in. 

She then slammed it shut and rested her back to it, panting like crazy. _What a day._

50

"Here, spray yourself with some of this," Sherry said while offering Nathan the Aid Spray. "It should make you feel better." 

Nathan groaned, his hand shook as he took the canister. Blood from his fingers smeared all over it. "This stuff really work?" he asked, studying the green cross on its labels. 

Sherry nodded. "I've tried it on myself already. Go ahead."

He sighed, grasping the Aid Spray in his hands. The pain was causing him to see spots all around him. If he wasn't treated immediately, he'd die within the next hour. But what the Hell was this stuff? He remembered packing one of these into the pharmacy folder, along with hearing about it being "easily contaminated." It was also made by _Umbrella_—how could he trust this shit when it was made from a company he hated so much? 

"You sure there isn't any long-term effects from using this?" Nathan asked. 

"Well how should I know," she shrugged, "I'm just a kid!"

"Yeah, well what if it gives me cancer or—"

Something beat against the door, sounding out a sharp _thud_. The zombies were still out thereand they still wanted to get in. 

"All right," Nathan finally gave in. He didn't have much of a choice anyway. He held the spray can firmly over his left arm. His heart beat faster when he saw it. Over his forearm, a bite-wound the size of a small egg gaped at his eyes. Blood squirmed from spaces in his muscle tissue—it was still bleeding. Nathan sprayed it, closing his eyes. 

A fine mist fizzed from the tiny nozzle, hissing in one long _sssssssssss!_ Nathan felt sharp pain where the mist hit—it felt like pouring a bottle of alcohol over it. A few seconds later, the pain vanished, and was replaced by a euphoric feeling that made Nathan want to spray in _more._

"Please," Sherry begged, "don't use it all!"

He released the button, taking a deep breath. He opened his eyes, dropping his jaw as he looked at the results. 

It was dried up. It deteriorated to nothing but a scab. 

"My gosh," Nathan laughed. "How—how did it do that!"

Sherry just looked at him, blinking. "See, I-I told you."

"Hey, thanks," he smiled. "Mind if I use some more?"

She shook her head. "Just don't be stingy."

Nathan Lieu then sprayed the rest of the wounds, bringing him from a _dangerous_ condition back to a _fine_ one. The can worked like a miracle drug—why hadn't it become popular? It could replace any form of disinfectant. Some things just worked in mysterious ways. Once he was finished, he handed it back, noticing its contents were almost gone. 

"You know," Nathan said, moving his arms and legs around. The pain had disappeared. "You saved my life there, Sherry. Thank you."

She simply nodded, wiping the blood off the can. "Thank the can." 

Nathan chuckled a bit, feeling the scabs around him. He was feeling wonderful. 

The door to the lounge _cracked_, throbbing like a heart. After a few minutes, the door would give in.

Nathan got up and rummaged through a bag on the table. He found some First Aid material, including a roll of bandage and a small sidepack. He was about to abandon them until he noticed something about his scabs. Some of them began cracking open, letting out blood. He grabbed the roll and the pack, quickly wrapping his opened wounds with bandages, and stuffed it into the pack. He then stood up, looking around. 

They were trapped here. All he saw was nothing but walls and tables. 

Sherry stood aside, looking up at him. "What are we going to do?"

Nathan stared at the tables, then looked back at the collapsing door. He turned around and crouched so he stood shorter than Sherry. 

"You think you can help me push those tables against the door, so those things won't get in here?"

Sherry looked at him with sad eyes. "But what are going to do after we do that?" her frightened voice asked. "I-I don't feel like s-staying here!" 

Nathan sighed. He was just a volunteer here. "I don't know. I guess we'll have to find something along the way" 

"I'm scared," she said with a grim face. "We're going to die, aren't we?"

Nathan stood up, taking deep breaths. He rested a hand over her shoulder. "Not if you help me bring those tables back there." 

From the crack in the door, a pair of eyes peered from the opening. Moments later, skinned arms squirmed through, shoving their way in like night crawlers. 

51

Leon raised his gun and shot the zombie ahead of him. He shot it five times. Its body rocked from each bullet, falling down. It got up again. 

"Godammit, how many shots does it take," Leon clamored, taking a few steps forward. He added three more to its chest, throwing it back a few feet. Cartridges flew all over the place, bouncing off cars and buildings while uttering _clink-clinks_ wherever they went. The thing continued at him, raising its arms again. Blood gushed from the holes on its chest. It moaned, opening its mouth at him. 

Leon fired again, rapidly pulling the trigger until the corpse fell back, convulsing on the floor. He brought his foot to its chest, pointing the pistol to its face. 

"Live through _this_." He then pulled the trigger until his ears screamed from the deafening reports. Red gore splashed in all directions. The thing's head mashed in a flurry of flying meat. With every flash from the VP70, blood splattered. Leon madly jabbed the trigger, bringing down more lead over its eyes, nose, mouth, and brain. Smoke rushed from the tip of the barrel once he was finished. Half the monster's head was gone—the other half was a bloody mess of smoldering flesh. 

Twelve bullets spentLeon shouldn't have wasted so much. He looked up. 

_Six more_ were slouching his way. If he spent twelve bullets on just _one_then how was he going to take on _six_?! 

Leon fled. He ran forward, trying to dodge the hands reaching for him. 

Arms, arms that used to belong to average men, appeared from all directions snatching and clawing his body towards their grimy selves. A bunch of these grimy things looked familiar. One of them was a cop. He had his chest impaled by three bullets that were not Leon's, but he was still alive. Except he was hungry. His teeth came out, rushing into Leon's arm. He bit him. 

"_No_!" 

He shook them off, receiving another bite on his shoulders. The crowd had caught him, and the six then surrounded him, grasping him before sinking their teeth down a new area. He screamed. He shoved one, tossing it into a few of them. The force knocked them off like bowling pins as they fell onto their backs. Leon took this opportunity and leapt over them, running. His foot landed on one of their faces, shearing its skin off.

Blood leaked from where they bit him. As he ran, he left spots trailing in the street. He groaned in pain, showing his teeth between his stride. 

He entered an alley, where he saw more of them. One of them was on fire. It was struggling to walk as the flames consumed it. Its face made that sizzling noise. It gurgled from the boiling liquids running off. It reached for him, missing as he ran past it

And into the arms of another. 

He yelled, struggling with its arms. Leon pressed his gun to its chest and blew its heart away. Its remains flew into the wall. Leon stepped back, watching the thing fall over and twitch to death. A pool of blood formed around it. He turned and ran. 

In the middle of this, Leon was beginning to lose his mind. He hadn't registered the fact at first, but he was, at this point, _killing people._ People that he dreamt about making friends with. People that he'd serve and protect. He was becoming a killer without even knowing it. What if those people actually _felt_ what he did to them? What if they weren't really zombies? _What was happening around here?!_

Leon, cool it, or you'll lose it—dammit, get your shit together!

Leon stopped, staring dumbly at the person ahead of him. 

The man had his head tilted, fixed on him. He was wearing a cream shirt with greenish pants. He stood there for a moment and began to walk. 

He didn't walkhe just lurched around, clumsily dragging both legs. 

Strands of tissue stuck out his face, and Leon tried to look past ittried to _see_ the real person behind the grotesque visage. He focused as hard as he could. He tried to see the man with the smile; the man with the American dream; the man coming home to his kids after a long day's work; the man he'd laugh and share jokes with; the manhe saw nothing. He just couldn't. 

He saw nothing but blood and rotting flesh—the remains of some disturbing transformation. He saw _nothing_. When he tried to see something, Leon Scott Kennedy saw a ravenous appetite bent toward human flesh. He saw something _evil_, and that evil was to end right now

_I'd be damned if there's still a trace of that man's soul left in there _

He rose his gunmetal VP70 at it, shooting wildly. The corpse—a blank part of that man—convulsed from the impact, spewing blood. It fell to the floor. 

Leon then stepped up to it and finished it off, ending its short life by crushing a bullet through its brain. The head burst open.

And a spent casing fell to the ground, dancing wildly around its face. 

52

It was a moment before Claire realized she was in a dark roomalone. 

For the last couple seconds she was going over what had happened since she arrived in Raccoon, which already felt like eons ago. It all happened so fast. I mean, she _had_, in fact, encountered zombies; she _had_ stumbled upon a cop that almost shot her; she _had_ witnessed an entire gas station explode; she _had_ narrowly escaped a freak accident from a gas truck—and along with that, she _had_ been sure she wasn't dreaming. Was she in the right city? 

_Oh, and I forget to mentionwelcome to Raccoon City_

_Welcome to the World of Survival Horror_

She shivered. She should of kept that note for proof that she wasn't hallucinating when she last read it. The thought of everything fitting together that way kept her from thinking straight. She was much more afraid now, now that she was alone. Alone in the dark. 

Claire didn't want to move. In the pitch-darkness of this shed, she was afraid of what could hear her if she so happened to stand up. She felt like she was being watched by something. Along with that, she felt like Heather Donahue from _The Blair Witch Project_—at the part where she's screaming inside the old house with handprints on the wall. Sitting alone in this dark room, Claire felt like she was being hunted—_stalked_, like those three from the movie (couldn't open her eyes, nor close them). She could just see the silhouette of some dark beast standing in the corner, waiting for her to turn on the light before pouncing her. 

_I mean, what if we're dealing with_ more_ than just zombies here?_

Claire fought with herself. She couldn't stand with the fact of being trapped hereshe had to meet Leon at the station before God knows what happens. Which meant she had to moveand turn on the light. She looked up at the ceiling. 

After her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she saw the dark outline of the bulb, and the chain switch dangling from it. The small string of beads loomed above, waiting for her to pull it. Claire carefully rose to her feet, grimacing as she readied her pistol for anything out of the ordinary. She reached up, her hand nearing the chain.

Her heart began to race as she thought about seeing some beast once she pulled the switch

Her hand caught the chain. Claire looked around in the dark, noticing anything before pulling it. She saw nothing but large shapes that looked like a bunch of shelves. Other than that, she didn't make out much. Claire yanked the switch, quickly raising her gun at anything that might appear before her eyes. 

The room lit up, straining her eyes. It cast a faint yellow on everything. 

The large shape she saw in the dark was a large shelf. Behind it, a rusted door caught her attention. Claire gave out a sigh of reliefshe was alone here. There wasn't a _beast_ or anything that was stalking her. She let out another sigh, placing her hand to her chest. 

Claire heard something from behind the shelf. Something like a _thud_. 

A dark, round object rolled out from behind the shelf. 

The object kept rolling until it hit the wall, bouncing back like a tumbleweed. It then rolled a little toward Claire's direction, slowly revealing itself. _It was somebody's head. Oh God, he was decapitated_something_ must of sliced it off_.

The man had black hair, a mustache, and was looking at Claire with widened eyes. His head smeared a trail of blood from where it rolled from. She jumped, almost firing her gun before hearing another noise.

Something hissed from behind the shelf. 

Whatever that something wasit wasn't a zombie. 

Her hands began to shake. She just _prayed_ that rusty door back there wasn't locked. She was going to make a run for that door—even though she could risk getting killed by that_thing_—or whatever it was—back there. And she couldn't go back through the other door—those zombies out there were waiting for her, and there was no other way to the station but through this shed. Everything was blocked off. And that left Claire with only one option. 

Claire rushed to the door, darting around the shelf. She heard a strange _clacking_ sound as she did so, and felt something brush against her legs. She leapt for the door and grasped the knob, tugging at it. It wouldn't open. 

Twist_ it before you tug at it, you stupid bitch!_

Claire panicked, frantically turning the knob as she heard a bloodcurdling scream behind her. Her heart leapt from her throat. She pulled open the door and lunged out, shutting it behind her. She felt something strike the metal door, causing a small lump to appear over the surface. The door shook violently. The thunderous sound grabbed her heart. 

Claire then ran from the shed as fast as she couldwhatever she encountered back there, she didn't want to go through again. 

53

Leon heard some hip-hop playing from the alley he was walking into. He stopped short, showing his teeth in pain from the wounds. They were still bleeding. He raised his gun and released his magazine clip, replacing it with his last one. Now he had only eighteen bullets to spend on whatever he came across

The music grew louder, and Leon recognized some of it. It was that underground, hardcore rap that people like Kobe liked to listen to. In fact, this particular track was good ol, Kobe Kani's best shit. Whenever Leon heard this, he knew Kobe was around. Kobe liked to bust up some beats while fucking up those skinheads. He particularly liked doing that—he once told Leon that it helped him to "_fuckin _express himself in a _muthafuckin _constructive way." Leon always chuckled when he thought about that jokeKobe was always full of that irony. And he was here in this alley. 

Leon saw him sitting on the hood of his '69, roofless _Impala_, Cuban-looking and all, while he nodded to his loud music. He had a light grin on his face. Looked as if his best "hoodlum buddy" had no idea about the zombie thing. But that was okayit was cool enough for Leon to stumble upon him this very moment. Things could always be worse. 

A smile appeared from him as he neared the top-down _Impala_. The throbbing lyrics of _X-Rated_ sounded to him like _home, sweet home._ Leon could already smell the distinctive odors of his apartment. 

"Yo, Kobe!" Leon yelled from under the loud music, "manwe gotta get outta here! You know what's going on in this place?"

His friend just sat there, staring at the flaming barrel behind Leon. He chuckled, laughing continually. The tips to his dreadlocks shifted. 

Leon paused. A concerned look appeared over his face. "I'm serious, Ko, some shit's been takin up Raccoon. I'm gonna need you to come with me to the stationunless you know a safer place—"

He continued to chuckle, laughing harder. His tall body heaved from each laugh, causing him to shake a little. 

"Hey Kostraighten yourself up, my man. This ain't no time to be playin around. I gotta get this straight with" 

Leon stopped before finishing. He gazed into Kobe's face. He then backed away, slowly shaking his head as he did so. _Noit couldn't be._ _No_

Kobe stood up. An evil grin was on his face. An _evil_ grin. 

_No_

The skin on his face began to flap away as he got to his feet. 

_Leon's gonna try to be a cop! We gonna get his ass tonight!_

Leon took more steps back, shaking his head as he went along. He felt a tear run up one of his eyes. _Nono! _

As Kobe began _slouching_ toward Leon, the skin on his face fell off. It crumpled to the ground like a rubber mask. He moaned, bringing his arms up. The white eyes on his Freddy Krueger face shone out and focused on him. The dreadlocks continued to hang there. Kobe was still wearing that grinthat disturbing, malicious grin. He uttered another chuckle. 

Leon took steady steps back, his hands shaking as he raised the gun at the thing that used to be Kobe. His face contorted, and his lips trembled as he tried to aim. 

_Just go to workor I'll go Rookie-Cop Killah on yo ass! _

"_Oh Jesus,_" Leon voiced, trembling, "_h-how Kobeh-how can I do this, my manhow can II-I just can't._" 

Kobe opened his mouth wide, showing his teeth as he limped closer. His head tilted in multiple directions. He groaned, letting out air from his mouth. 

Leon shot him—every shot that hit Kobe felt like it was hitting him also. The gun spattered bullets that tore at his best friend's chest. Every shot knocked him back until he fell to the ground. Leon then aimed for his friend's head as he got up, fighting a tear. He paused. 

_No, I can'tI just can't. _

The thing that had been Kobe struggled up again, with four 9x19 bullets blown through its chest. It continued at Leon—its appetite unscathed. It moaned again. 

Leon closed his eyes and shot him in the forehead. A tear fell to the ground. Leon sniffed, shaking his head as he heard the body _thud_ to the ground. _Rest in peace, my manyou take care of yourself up thereyou take care of yourself— _

Oh, God, Jesushelp me

As he opened his eyes, Leon heard more noises from behind him. Dozens of shadows stretched from the walls, enshrouding him. Leon threw his body around, looking back at what came from the corners. It was Kobe's friendseach and every one of them. They broke their way through the fence and were making their way to Leon—eager to eat him just like Kobe did. Leon pushed a sigh through his mouth, trying not to lose his sanity. 

_Remember Leonthey are all zombies. They're not your friends no more._

No!

Leon desperately tried to fight that thought as his sights rose to aim at them. 

He _was _losing his sanity.

54

With help from Sherry, Nathan managed to tip the table over and slam it against the wall. It crushed some of their arms, making them pull away. 

"Great," Nathan said. "Now all we need to do is keep this table from tipping over. Got any ideas?"

"I think we better find some nails," she said, "but I don't think that's a good idea, since we can't find any right now."

"No—actually, that _is_ a good idea, but as you said, we need to find some nails. Let's go check out those boxes."

They ran to the far side of the lounge, letting the table stand vulnerable. After a while, it tipped over and slammed back to the floor. It was to be several more minutes before the door gave away. 

Nathan dragged some boxes from under the tables, ripping the top off before pouring into the contents. Sherry did the same. 

"You have any idea of what happened here?" Nathan asked. He had the question on his mind since he met her. 

She pulled out some styrofoam. She shook her head, keeping that grim look on her face. 

Nathan sighed. He wished he knew somehow, then at least they'd know what they were dealing with. So far, he was pretty sure they were against _zombies_but if zombies were walking around, what _else_ could be out there? 

Nathan found a vent hole behind some of the boxes. It looked as if it led to a tunnel someplace. The hole was big enough for someone to squeeze through and crawl out. But the only problem was, it could only fit someone _smaller_ than Nathan, more like a child. More like Sherry. 

"Sherry," he called out, gesturing at the vent port. "You crawl through these a lot?"

She quickly dropped the stack of papers from the box and ran to where Nathan was. "Yeah!" she exclaimed, nodding her head. "You found us a way out!

"Yeah, I did, but it's only for you. You see, I can't fit throughI think you're going to have to go without me."

Sherry stopped short, sitting down before the venting gate. "But, are you going to be okay once I leave?" 

Nathan smiled. Of course, it was a fake smile. He was scared to death. "Oh _yeah_, definitely. You'll be headed to a _much_ better place than this one. From what I remember, I think that tunnel leads into the furnace area—and right around there, you'll find the exit out of here." He smiled again. The hospital's layout was coming back to him. "Once you get out, Sherry, I want you to contact the police—or _anybody that you find_—I want you to do that, okay?"

Sherry nodded. Her blue eyes seemed to hold much hope, despite the morose face she wore. She wrapped her fingers around the meshed gate and tried pulled at it. Nathan helped her, peeling the malleable sheet off. From the darkness, the vent looked forebo-ding. Sherry got down and looked through. She gasped in surprise.

"The tunnel's really short! I can talk to you when I'm on the other side!" 

Nathan bent down and peeked through the tunnel, widening his eyes. It was only around ten feet long. "Wish I was smaller" he said before pulling back. "Sherry, let me know if you find anything useful down there, okay? After that, I want you to get out of here—this is no place for you."

"Will I ever see you again?" she asked warmly. 

Nathan smiled. "Yeah, you will. I promise that." _Yeah, hopefully,_ his thoughts added. Everything he now said was masked with the opposite emotions. 

"Oh, and what's your name again?" she asked, eyeing Nathan's name tag. 

"NathanNathan Lieu, I'm a volunteer here. Now go, Sherry, get out of here."

"Okay." 

She left after that, disappearing through the hole.

Nathan looked back and stared at the door. He dragged and stacked as many tables in front of it as possible. The boxes behind him were full of nothing but stationary. Nathan was trapped here now. Trapped here alone. His heart was hammering him with each _thud_ the zombies made against the door. He was unarmed and afraidhe was aware of that. He was just _so damn scared._

"_God_" Nathan prayed amidst the sound of moans and banging, "_if you can hear me, please—oh please, help me in some wayI am _so _afraid._"

The tables tipped over, crashing down as arms and moans pushed through. The door shook side to side, creaking as it began to give away. 

Leon dove onto the seat of Kobe's car, twisting at the ignition with panicking fury. He screamed, nearly passing out as he realized the car wouldn't start. The engine kept on hacking away, failing to start. Leon screamed again. 

There were at least ten zombies pouring from the alley before him. 

Leon rose his pistol and shot at a few of them, throwing them back. His single clip was running dry—he could feel it. And the moment he ran out of bullets, was the moment they overwhelmed him and tore him to pieces. Oh _shit!_

He tried the ignition again, failing to bring life into the car's engine. What did he have to do to start this thing?! Leon kicked at it. He then kicked it continuously. 

He heard something shuffle in the glove compartment. Something heavy. 

Leon forced the case open, awing at what came tumbling out. It was Kobe's uzi. 

_Why you gotta be pullin that hard-cop shit with your lil VP70? You know who got the bigger gun._

And _yes,_ Leon was happy his friend had the bigger gun. 

Leon stood up on the seats of the car, overlooking the crowd before him. He cocked the submachine gun, aiming down at their swiveling heads. They looked up. 

He squeezed the trigger, holding the sputtering animal with both arms. 

Leon sprayed them, electrifying their bodies with several bullets he sent from the single squeeze from the trigger. Blood blew from their chests as a few of their heads opened up in flying parts. Leon tried not to see their former selves. As he brought the stream to one after another, his sanity desperately hung from sweaty palms.

The loud, rolling _rat-tat-tat-tat_ continued until it became monotonous. The flames jetting from the barrel flashed in rapid successions. The zombies rocked from the impact of several bullets hitting them per second. Leon kept his finger on the trigger until the bullets ran out. He yelled down at all of them. 

"How do you like _that_, you fuckers!" He threw down the uzi and picked a few more off with his sidearm, aiming at the head. A few of them fell back with holes gushing with blood. Leon shot all that he could, covering the ground with twitching bodies. He fired until his last clip ran out. 

_More_ bodies were making their way from the fence. 

They poured out as if there were no end to them. They just kept coming and coming and coming

Leon dove down, rushing through the crevices of Kobe's car with his hands. He tried to find ammoor some kind of weapon. His hand found a survival knife from under the car seat. It was around a foot long. 

_I can't take them all out with this_ he thought, noticing the zombies he laid waste to rise back up. Almost all of them came up. Leon searched harder, throwing the knife away. 

His hands fell upon a heavy box. As he pulled it out, he noticed it was red and the label "Tony's Arms" was on it. He quickly opened it and found six clips of ammo _specially_ _made_ for his VP70! Leon noticed a small note was attached to it. It read: 

A special gift for that first day on the job. Keep shootin the sky! —yo' bud, Ko 

Leon smiled. He took all six clips and reloaded his pistol. 

He stood back up and fired a gap in the crowd, narrowly escaping the arms as he ran through. 

_Thank you, Kobe. I will always shoot the sky for you, my man._

While he ran, he let out five shots in the air, shattering the silence with bitter reports. It was for good luck.

55

Claire looked up as she heard five gunshots fade into the city air. Before those consecutive reports, she heard several more that sounded like submachine gun and pistol fire. A faint, hopeful smile came to her face. Leon was still alive. 

She carefully entered the confines of the retail store, quickly darting her eyes around the dim lighting. The place was looted. She noticed it the first time she stepped past the broken-through doorway. The store she was in was probably some general store that sold about everything. Everywhere her foot stepped, bits of glass and packaged goods appeared beneath her soles. Claire raised her gun, stepping through aisles bare of supplies. Again, like the shed back there, the place was creepy. It was so quiet. Claire's footsteps sounded like the loudest thing in the world. She kept on walking. 

She stepped over a few cans of _Coke_ and some packages of _Power Bars_. Claire bent down and picked them up. She was _so_ hungry. But the thought of actually eating in this dark place sounded unsettling after experiencing what had happened in the shed. Oh well. She found a corner to sit back on. Claire then opened the can and drank it, unwrapping the _Power Bar_ and ripping a bite from it. The energy snack was hard like thick taffy, but it was enough to suffice. She ate three bars while taking sips from her second can of _Coke_. 

She looked around. 

From the dim, fluorescent lighting, the store lost color from its ghastly appear-ance. The place had the look of an apocalyptic setting. Silence made the munches of her food sound a lot louder. It filled the air like Leon's gunfire. 

Claire continued to chew through her food, eating while throwing her _fair lady_ manners out the window. She wolfed the food down in dead silence. Nothing came from the corners looking for her, nor did any severed limbs come rolling from aisles. She was safe here. No doubt was the place creepy, but it was a safe place—she was sure of that. Once she finished eating, Claire got up and walked toward the back exit of the building. 

Once she went outside, she found herself in an alley with debris littered everywhere. A section was fenced off, large road blocks sat against buildings unused, a crushed car protruded from a cleft in the blockade, and cones were scattered everywhere. But through all of it, a passage still bore through; and Claire walked down it. 

As she did so, she noticed a black shape move behind the fence. From the darkness it made a light scampering sound. Some sounds of breathing came out from the void, and her grip on the pistol tightened. She kept her eyes on the blackness while walking on, being very careful not to make any noise. 

She didn't want whatever that was back there to hear her. 

The Doberman lashed into the fence, barking. It shook the barrier, causing some of it to pulse toward Claire's direction. It tingled intensely. 

Claire leapt back raising her gun at the animal. Or_was it_ an animal? 

The thing, with its dark skin peeled off, was missing a portion of its head. One of its ears were gone. It was nothing but a snarling hunk of flesh with sharp teeth. Around its face—under its missing eye and over its decomposing nose, two eruptions took place. The explosions were fatal to the dog, and it slammed it back, yelping wildly. Blood splurged forth in small, mid-air waves. The Doberman then found itself lying on its side, dead from two bullets forced through its head. 

Claire lowered her firearm. Smoke thinned from the barrel as she turned to walk away. Eleven bullets left. She looked back to make sure the thing hadn't came up again. 

It lay dead on the pavement—a silhouette in the alley. 

Leon pushed a gate forward, throwing it against a wall. He strolled through and entered the Midtown Area, still grasping at his wounds. They began to numb his entire arm. As he left the alleys, he took his hand off his shoulder and rested it against a wall, panting. When his hand pulled away, it left a red handprint over its surface. 

A strange noise echoed from the street Leon was headed to. It sounded like a giant was squishing something through its fingers. It also sounded like it was happening in rapid successions. 

_Squish, squish—squish—squish, squish—squish, squish, squish_

Leon ran closer to where the noise wasfinding a slain police officer centered in the middle of snapping jaws and devouring teeth. Leon stopped, taking slow steps around the circle as they ripped and gnashed their way through him. The dead Sergeant's head moved from the bloody feast—it shook and turned left and right. His chin was speckled with blood. His eyelids were gone. Large bug-eyes stared up the sky. 

_Squish, squish—squish—squish, squish—squish, squish, squish_

The zombies suddenly stood up, trailing behind Leon as he rushed past them. He noticed a transit bus ahead of him. It was situated in the middle of an area that was blocked off by cars, creating a natural barricade. The bus was the only way through this. He tried pushing its door open, slamming at it. They were closing in, stretching their hands for him. The door didn't budge. Leon then stepped back and threw his body against it, splitting the doorway into two halves. He rushed up the steps and turned around, kicking the door closed. The dead stood trapped outside, beating against the door with no avail. Leon was safe from them. But it wasn't time to rest yet. 

A scuffling noise was dragging its way down the bus's floor. 

The noise was caused by a womana _dead_ woman. It was a dead woman that was frighteningly familiar. Leon gasped, trying to push the words out of his mouth. 

The large breasted, (and rather pretty) blonde woman clawed down the aisle, moaning with a light voice that once belonged to Trisha Lockney. Her DD breasts flattened against the metallic floor, sliding along with perfect firmness. 

_I think you're sexy._

Leon watched the leftovers of the pick-pocketing beauty struggle her way to Leon's legs. The closer she pulled up to him, the more hideous she became. The skin on her cheek flapped as pink tissue appeared from beneath. Rows of molars were visible as well. Her skin was no longer smoothit was rugged with lacerations all over portions of her legs and thighs. A bald spot of brain situated itself over the top of her head. 

I'm a thief, just one buxom little girl trying to make a living here.

Leon readied his gun at Trisha, beginning to shiver. Maybe he could just jump over her body and leavethere was no sense in shooting this helpless corpse. 

_Sure_Leon's conscience seethed._ Why couldn't you just _run_ from Kobe when you had the chance?_ _Shoot her!_

"I guess you won't be pulling dollar bills outta my pants," Leon said, aiming over her back. He filled her fleshy back with screaming lead, hitting her where her heart was, along with her neck. Her face fell to the ground. Leon then stepped over her. 

She grabbed his ankle. 

"Dammit!" Leon screamed. He kicked his foot around, feeling her teeth pierce the skin of his leg. She rolled onto her back, her face hanging below Leon's lower calf. The pain made him want to vomit. He shot her in the face, blowing off her lower jaw. Bits of flesh flew everywhere. Her head came off his leg, landing against the hard floor. She gagged from the missing portion of her mouth.

Leon closed his eyes and brought his foot up, stomping _hard_ over Trisha's face. 

Her head mashed against the sole of his shoe. It felt rather soft, despite feeling the bone give away. Noises that sounded like the _snap _of cracking shells whooshed through the bus. Blood rushed from the head that once streamed with brilliant hair. The once-pleasant face crushed together in a heap of spongy material. Leon screamed when he saw the mess under his foot. He ran, trying hard to fight off the nausea enveloping his head. Before he sped off, passing the next zombie, and kicking open the entrance to the bus, he had one final glance of Trisha Lockney. It was the white of an eyeball protruding from a flattened, pink mass. 

Leon ignored the dead bodies (which were really _dead_) around the aisle as he ran through. At the moment, he became unaware of the nightmarish bus he raced across. Cracks milking the windows white were appearing from all over the bus. Tiny bits of glass crunched underneath his footsteps. He didn't even pay any attention to the zombie at the far end. Leon simply placed the gun to its forehead, pulled the trigger, and ran off. It was blind luck it hadn't grabbed him when he did that. He kicked open the door on the other side, leaping away from the bus. 

Outside, Leon saw the gate leading into the police station. Like the rest of the city, the gate was the only way through the entire mess of crushed squad cars and road blocks. Bodies of fallen cops lied dead from the cars—with faces that made them look like they were gagging. Beside the row of cars, a fire truck blocked the way to other portions of the city. It was on fire. 

A pack of zombies stumbled around the street, throwing their sights on Leon.

He reloaded his pistol, letting his clip fall out. He aimed. 

Leon downed the first one that came up to him. It fell back with four bullets in its chest before coming right up again. Leon cursed and ran through the six remaining members of the pack, outwitting their swipes. Despite his condition, he managed to make it past all of them without too much difficulty. The bite Trisha had given him was slackening his running speed. Leon burst through the gate and slammed it behind him.

As he rushed down the stairs leading into a short tunnel, he heard them beat at the gate, sounding out screeches and clangs. They weren't going to make it through. 

A stairway leading up to the station's courtyard appeared from the shadows. Leon soon made his way up the steps, stepping carefully. The pain was beginning to numb his leg now. Every step he took with that leg, it threw him closer to a limp. 

When he reached the top, he grunted as he threw himself down onto a spot of elevated area reserved for growing plants. Leon rested himself there, catching his breath while clearing his shattered mind from the demons occupying their vacancies. He turned his head around and saw the grand entrance into the police station. _The_ police station. The large sign above the doorway welcomed him the same exact way it did the morning Leon last visited it. Except there were a few things missing. Around the gold-colored borders and the fat, nice symbol, it now read: 

****

R. .D.

Ra c n City Police Departme

Leon drew out an exhausted breath, placing a hand on his hip. _Oh Godwhat happened here._ He let his body rest into the green bush on the elevated ground. Its leaves touched his wounds. If the station was down alsohe didn't want to know what was behind it all. 

_What the Hell's the deal hereis it _ghosts?_ Is it really because of that contam-ination? Did some intergalactic beam hit Raccoon and "zombified" the citizens?_

Leon just wished this was all a bad dream, really. He just wanted to wake up in his car at the barn and call it a day. But instead, he heard something sizzle beside his arm. 

The leaves on some plantit dissolved over Leon's wounds. 

He leapt back, feeling the plant against the gash in his arm. It stuck there, melting away. After the painful sting, it felt pretty _good_. Leon tried searching for more of those plants in the bush—unfortunately, those green wonders didn't make up the entire bush. Leon managed to find another, where he pulled it out and applied it to his other wounds. 

The leaves on them dissolved over his cuts, _sealing_ them shut. It was _amazing_! Leon had heard stories of hikers in the Raccoon Forest discovering some "magical herb" in the past, but he never once believed them. Everyone in Raccoon thought it was all a bunch of bull also. That was a few days ago. Leon searched for more of those herbs and managed to pull out another, stuffing it into his leg. The feeling was so gratifying. Once he was finished, he noticed he couldn't find more and left. 

He ran up the stairs leading to the R.P.D. station. They were the same stairs he once compared to the Lincoln Memorial. Groans haunted the courtyards, traveling with the air. It made it seemed as if the entire city was moaning like those zombies. The smell Leon sensed earlier in both the morning and evening was now right under his nose. He never knew that dead stench would grow since he first came upon it. 

An opened gate appeared at the end of the alley. The wind coming from the other end moved it back a little. Claire walked past it, shivering to herself. This new area she walked through was darker than the rest of the alley. There was no question as to what lurked in these shadows. Claire stepped through it, putting her gun up in hopes to guard herself. She was greeted by near pitch-blackness. 

On the far end, Claire could see some light shining down on some staircase that led to the roof of some building. After taking some time to study it, she came to conclude that it was the police stationand she was here. 

Something rushed from the dark and grabbed her arm. She screamed. 

The black shape moaned beside her. It released a pungent odor that made her grow weary. She felt teeth bite down her left shoulder and puncture her skin. Claire felt some warm liquid drip to her left hand. It smelled like rust. Like the menacing rust that devours iron, leaving a smell as horrid as those things. 

She then felt another pain—this time coming from her leg. 

Claire screamed from the darkness, pressing her gun at the zombie's chest. She fired away, lighting up the area around her. The Browning rocked in her hands as she sprayed furiously. Blood splattered all over her. In the middle of each shot, Claire could see the zombie from under the flash of her gun. While the shadows lit up, its skinless face appeared for a nanosecond before the darkness draped it again. The image continually blinked until it had a strobe effect. Once it fell to the floor, she aimed lower and pounded the other body crawling beside her foot. The alley flashed again. 

From the corner of her eyes, Claire could see two more stumbling their way down the alley. She'll run from those. 

Smoldering cartridges rolled from the top of her boots. Claire soon heard a rustling from beside her as the first zombie she downed rose to its feet again. She gripped at her shoulder and ran from it. 

The other two down the alley swung their arms to grab her. Claire dashed from the first, allowing the second to seize her red vest. Her body suddenly jerked back, stopping in between her escape. She heard a woman moan beside her. 

_Welcome to Raccoon City, Claire,_ the woman's grisly face voiced in her mind, except it wasn't the voice of the womanit was the voice of the hit man on the phone. _Welcome to a city where we eat bitches like youbitches that like to cross Bartowen—haven't you forgotten, my pink little peach, you, that you have something to do? Don't you forget your master, Claire. Do your shit and we might not try to bring you closer to the dead. And speaking of _the dead,_ I'm sure Teresa and the gang are quite excited to dine on that voluptuous body of yours_

Claire screamed. Raising her voice in the air while unloading the rest of her parabellum rounds into the zombie's face. The woman's head scattered away. It blew open, jetting streams of blood all over Claire. She kept on pulling the trigger until nothing but metallic _clicks!_ sounded from the barrel. She grunted loudly, throwing her body around and leapt up the stairs. Pain was searing her leg, as well as her shoulder. Blood trickled over the steps. Claire wiped some off her. 

When the bottom of her boots contacted with the second floor of the station, she quickly ran to the nearest doorway, wincing in pain from the wounds. She approached a metallic dooras if she hadn't come across enough of those already. Claire opened it and stepped inside, closing it behind her. 

She was in another dark place. 

_Okay, _Claire thought, eyeing the area around her, _now I'm in the police station. So what did Leon say was so safe about _this_? And Chris is somewhere around here_Chris!_ Can I just imagine that?! I'm about to meet my brother!_

_Orwill I?_

Claire looked around the deserted hallway. All of the windows were broken through, filling the floor with glass shards. Claire stood frozen in the dark hall. There were only dim lights in this placeit barely looked as if there were any at all. The walls were dank from stains of moisture filling them. The ground she stepped on was made of wood, and there was a dead cop lying in the middle of the hallway. 

Small, black figures were huddled around the corpse. Claire carefully stepped toward it, feeling her heart increase in beats. The glass under her footsteps cracked and brought some sound in the room. The black figures moved, leaping into the air. 

They were crows. Large onesjust like the ones from the highway. 

They cawed as Claire neared them. She was out of bullets, and she was desperate to survive this—which wasn't going to be easy. 

They flew around the hallway, darting out the windows while diving down at her head, claws stretched out. They all screeched at her. 

56

The door burst openand they came inside. 

Nathan just stood there, backing away as they filed into the room, entering one by one. As each of them crossed the threshold, their eyes locked with Nathan's, groaning. Some of them were missing skin all over their body, while others did not. They limped around the room, moaning. One of them vomited. A trail of brown liquid appeared from its mouth and splashed over the linoleum. It caused a hissing sound against the floor. Drizzles of vapor came up. 

_Now, I'm _not_ going to let that get all over _me_,_ Nathan thought, widening his eyes at what the vomit had done. He took more steps back. 

The whole area was filled with those long cafeteria-type tables. Nathan hoped that by simply maneuvering around them, he could trick them into stumbling around the tables while he leapt over and made his way out. 

Actually, that won't work. 

More of them pushed through, filling the room with _six_ of them. They spread apart and tried to corner him. Nathan backed near the vent hole that Sherry had gone through. His heart beat faster. His hands began to sweat. He couldn't run past them—they built a form of wall before him. He couldn't trick them and just dash around—there was not enough space in the room to do that. Their arms would just grab him like _that_! Nathan was trappedeven if he made it out of here, he wouldn't last long without a weapon of some sort. 

Suddenly, Nathan heard something slide from the vent hole, and a red object appeared. The sight of that object was equivalent to the sight of an oasis to someone dying of thirst in the desert. Actually, maybe that object was even better than that. It'd seem more like the sight of a royal palace, than just an oasis. 

What Nathan was seeing was a weapon, or something that could be _used_ as a weapon. It was an axe—those big, red ones that firefighters used. It simply slid from the tunnel as if it came to the rescue. 

"_Nathan!_" Sherry's voice trail from the vent port, "_I f-found this in the furnace place you told me aboutI hope it'll help you! I'm going out to find some help right now!_"

"Sherry, good job, girl—damn, good—_good_ job!" Nathan shouted with overflowing enthusiasm. "You go rally the police—get out of here! I'll be fine, now _go_!" 

"_Okay_!"

That was when Nathan felt a few hands grab him. He snatched the axe, holding it firmly in both hands. Around the tip of the red blade, a sterling, silver strip gleamed from the edge. Nathan spun around and swiped the blade through the zombie's shoulder. 

He hacked its arm off. 

The force of the swing flung it back, blood pouring from its missing arm. Its arm still clung to Nathan—he tried forcing it off as the blood continued to spurt from the opened end. The zombie came back at him. Nathan drew back the axe and brought it down its chest. Blood spread from all directions of its impact. The zombie fell back to the floor, twitching as blood squirted from where the axe dug in. Its missing arm clutching at Nathan's shoulder fell off, thudding against the floor. He then tried to pull away the axe from the corpse. The blade was buried beneath the zombie's heartstuck there. 

It grabbed him again, sitting up to bite him in the hand. 

"_Oh no, you don't_!" Nathan hollered, kicking its head back. He took another step forward and slammed his foot through its head, smashing it. The face smeared away in an explosion of blood and squirming flesh. Nathan grimaced from it, trying not to vomit as he pulled the axe from its chest. 

More hands seized him. One of them had him by the neck. 

Nathan swung over and contacted with its head, cleaving its skull in half. He felt a mouth bite down his right arm. Once the zombie with the cleaved head fell back to the floor, he swung wildly. The blade dug into some flesh, clinging there as Nathan tried to pull it free. He received another bite to his other arm. Blood—both Nathan's and the dead—flung around the air. He yelled in agony, closing his eyes. He yanked the axe off, running away. He had struck down enough of them to escape the room. Nathan sprinted, jumping over fallen tables and boxes full of stationary. He rushed and got out of there, making the floor screech the same way basketball players do when they skipped around the court.

He didn't know if it was the adrenaline that was causing it, but he now remem-bered his way around the ground floor. He knew where he was headed now. Through the dimness and the objects strewn about, he managed to find the door that lead to the stairs. He ran up to it, hearing more moans from down the hall, and tried the door. 

It was locked. Nathan twisted it again. 

The door wouldn't openit was locked. 

He yelled in frustration, swinging the axe at the door. The steel door deflected the swing, throwing the blade off. A line of missing paint appeared on the its surface. 

"Why, _dammit, why_?!" Nathan fumed, clutching the axe with a bloody hand. 

The moans continued from behind himNathan could now hear scuffling noises making their way to where he was at. 

57 

It was_ Leon Kennedy's first day on the job—and it was also his first night on the job _

He scanned the main hall of the station, noticing how different it was earlier. The station was now devoid of people. Hundreds of officers and nameless agents were no longer milling around. Dense chatter was replaced by dead silence. Leon stepped down a stairway and walked to where the statue of the woman was, noticing how loud his footsteps echoed around the three-story station. 

Stains left from disgruntled cops remained on the statue's surface. Marks ranging from mildew and bits of gum spotted the woman. Leon took a step closer and realized she wasn't holding a bucket over her shoulder like he once thought she didit was a megaphone. Inscribed over a tablet at the statue's base, he made out an inscription:

****

WWH : Of all celestial beings, I await my return from the fifth star orbiting the cross. When I am in unity to my place, will the exit to the abyss emerge.

Leon blinked, scratching his head. He didn't get it. 

What he _did_ understand was that something was missing below the tabletsome kind of medallion or token of some sort. Was this some kind of a puzzle? Where the _Hell_ was this medallion? The "fifth star orbiting the cross?" What kind of sick joke was this? 

He rested against the marble base, caught in intensive thought. 

_When I am in unity to my place, will the exit to this abyss emerge._

Maybe if he found this missing piece, and placed it right where this space was, some great _big_ answer to all his problems would appear. But what did "WWH" stand for? **W**orld **W**ide **H**arassers? Leon had to know what that stood forand he was in no mood for mind games during this time of zombies and magical herbs. He left the statue, checking out the entire station. He was going to crack that brain teaser when he had the time. But for now, he was going to—

He heard a noise from one of the doorslike a scratching noise.

It sounded like the kind of noise a dog would make when scratching the door. The noise clawing the wood door became the only thing Leon heard in the station. He walked up to it, hearing the scratches against it. It had that carving quality to it, as if a chisel ran continuously at it. But once he neared the door, he heard a grunt, and the noise stopped. 

Leon paused, staring at the door. His breathing increased in frequency. His hand reached over and felt the doorknob, running the decision in his mind of whether or not to open it. Should he? He stepped closer and listened. 

Something was breathing in there. It sounded like a dog, but it could always be something else. Something that could just burst out and attack him. 

He decided not to open it, walking away. 

He had to find Claire—if she already made it here, and gather some information regarding this whole situation. Whatever it was, Leon only knew less than half of what really went on. He surveyed the main hall, noticing there were four doors leading into different areas. Two he was sure led to the West Wing of the station, while one connected to the East Wing. The door where the clawing noises were coming from led to some supply closet. Leon stayed as far away from that door as possible.

He took the door to the West Officemaybe he could find some paperwork in there regarding some information as to what went on. 

Once he made it inside, he heard someone groaning from across the office. The groaning sounded so familiar. 

Claire shielded her face from the diving claws. Her arms came up, absorbing the furious beaks. They pecked at her, hitting her head and bringing blood from her arms. Claire unsheathed her knife. 

She caught the first one on top of her, slashing off its wing. Ebony feathers fluttered about. It fell to the floor, screeching. The other two dodged the knife, flying amidst their scattering feathers. Claire swiped again, hitting only the air. She crouched, noticing herself face to face with the corpse lying beside her. His pecked face was full of torn skin and loose tissue jutting from an overflowing heap. 

_Okay, okay,_ her thoughts cried under the ambience of cawing crows,_ just don't try to get squeamishuse this opportunity to find something._

Claire bit her lip and probed the body, reaching into its pocket to pull out a red box. Written over it, soaked in blood, it read: **Tony's Arms**. Beneath the dread consum-ing her face, Claire managed to smile when she saw the package was full of 9x19 par-abellum rounds. She took the box and dashed down the hall—her feet kicking back pieces of glass from behind. The birds trailed behind herthe flap of their wings sounded like noises from jet engines roaring after her. Once Claire made it to the door, she disappeared right out of that place. 

Nathan threw a quick glance at the door. A keyhole was keeping the entrance locked. Somehow he had to find this key someplace—but where? 

A figure appeared in the hall in front of him. It moaned at him. 

Nathan grit his teeth, dashing up to it. As he did so, he rose the axe over his head and slammed it down the zombie's forehead, causing its head to split open in torrents of blood. It sprayed, tossing mutilated bits of brain tissue on the walls. Nathan yanked the blade back, watching its body fall. So the motherfuckers wanted _more_no problem!

He leapt at the next one and made a horizontal swipe for its neck. If only Nathan had swung hard enough. The blade disappeared into its jugular, throwing a geyser of blood straight in the air. Nathan tried hard not to let the sight weaken him. It clawed at the axe buried halfway through its neck, groaning helplessly. It grabbed Nathan's shirt, pulling him in as blood continued to squirt over the walls. Nathan drew back his foot and thrust it into the monster's chest while holding onto the axe. The weapon pulled free, and Nathan darted over the zombie. It soon came back up—its neck still squirting blood. 

The sight of mutilated bodies caused Nathan to grow nauseous. He tried fighting it again while rushing down the hall. He felt some saliva filling his mouth, but the bile never managed to rush up. He had to find the key to the stairways. He had to, but where was a place he could find them?

_Security, Natesecurity guards need those keys. Go to Security._

Nathan nodded to himself, thanking his gut instinct and ran across the halls. Blood trickled off him in several placeshe had to find more of that Aid Spray!

_Before heading to security, I gotta tend to my needs first,_ he thought.

Nathan leapt to where the elevators were, sliding into the one he came from. He propped himself beside the pharmacy folder and searched inside, feeling for something that felt like a canister. He felt the bag, pulling it out with eyes filled with content. 

The Aid Spray was in his hand now. Nathan plugged it into his sidepack and left. 

He rushed to where the hall ended, stopping at the door of the security room. He was to get out of here at last! He tried the doorand his smile disappeared in a furious swirl. It was locked. Locked like the staircase! _Fuck_! Nathan stood there trapped in desperation and fear. What was he going to do_ now_?

The zombies began filing in toward his position now. They were anxious for his flesh, as usual. 

Claire crept through another hallway—except this time it was well-lit compared to the crow-infested one. The cuts over her arms stung, and the bite wounds immobilized her movements. She held them, letting out grunts as she tried to walk. 

She heard an echo of someone's voice from some far corner. She shivered. It sounded low, stretching through the air while sounding articulate enough to belong to a human being. Actually, it felt more to her like the call of a ghost. 

A shadow appeared from the far end, bending over the corner. It looked like it belonged to someone overweight or massively built. Claire crept beside a door beside her, wondering if she should stay and meet up with the personbut something about that figure made her rush through that door, avoiding it. She closed that door _quietly_.

She had seen his face. 

Although the face's eyes did not catch her, Claire detected a guise of insanity from that face, which was drenched in blood. A malicious grin was on it as well.

She rested her back against the door, taking deep breaths at what she saw. Maybe it wasn't some psychopathperhaps the guy just looked that way and needed some help. Claire shook her head at that idea. No way. She had a very bad feeling about thisthat man was_ definitely_ insane. Claire had to get out of this room _soon _if she didn't want her own blood joining with the blood on that man's face. 

She propped herself over a comfy couch, filling her clip with the newly-found bullets. Her hands shook a bit. She tried keeping the rounds from slipping out her fingers. Once the thirteen rounds filled the magazine, she noticed there were enough left in the box to fill up another clip once she was done with this one. _Real_ swell, despite the fact it takes about half a magazine to keep just _one_ zombie away. She searched the room for other things. For a secretary's room, (or what she was assuming it was) some strange items caught Claire's attention. For one thing, there was a box of ammo on the seat in front of her. Oh well, no time to explain. Claire could always use some moreeven though it came in the form of three full magazines totaling to thirty-nine bullets. That left her with sixty-five lead bits to spare. That almost wiped the grim reality of the entire situation. 

But then again, they were only bullets to her pistol

Claire left the room without knowing what lurked behind the door. Former cops filled what looked like the second floor to the main lobby. She looked over and saw the first floor, where it had a statue and a few other doors leading to various places she had no idea of. She noticed four zombies in the narrow walkway, stumbling to reach her in both ends. So the police station wasn't as safe as she thought it was. 

_Head to the station where it's safe!_

Yeah, sure. 

Claire drew her gun up, pummeling the two zombies ahead of her. There were two behind her as well as before her. She had to make it around this walkway and somehow reach the first floorshe was guessing the remainder of the cops were bunched up in those rooms. And that included Chris and his **S.T.A.R.S.** gang—along with Leon. 

The first one flew back, falling to the floor. The other advanced, but Claire mowed that one down, tearing its head apart by several bullets. She replaced the empty clip with a new one, placing the old one in her pocket. When the first cop she pummeled got up again, she made sure this one was to stay dead. She unloaded half of her bullets into where its heart was, sending red splotches everywhere. It fell back, convulsing as a puddle of blood formed beneath it. 

She heard two other moans behind her—the other pair closed in. She ran. 

Claire rushed from them, gripping her wounds until something in the middle of the walkway caught her attention. It was a ladder leading down to the first floor. It was one of those emergency ones that extended to the floor when needed. She pressed the button and watched as the ladder mechanically lengthened until it touched ground. She got on and began to climb down, noticing the corpses with the cyan uniforms and police hats stumble around, trying to reach for her. 

Claire saw four doors in the main lobbyshe chose the one in the far end, running through and opening it. She noticed a sign that read: **East Wing**, beside the double doors. She hoped she was headed the right way. 

58

"Willie?" Leon ran past the blood soaked walls and overturned tables. The Will Smith lookalike winced, groaning from pain as he sat there, looking up at him. Under all this, he still had Willie—the man_ was_ _alive_! 

Leon was simply amazed at the sight. "Oh _shit_you do not know how _glad_ I am to see you," he chuckled. It was his first chuckle after what seemed like years. I mean, here he was: _Willie_! After almost everyone was gone, Leon still had him in the end. But what he saw now didn't seem to emulate much of what he was feeling. 

Willie didn't laugh, nor did he show any sign of satisfaction in seeing him. His face was pale, and he had large gashes across his stomach. Some of them looked a few inches deep. His uniform was drenched in blood. Leon felt so insensible for feeling so content—all he thought about was seeing Willie alive while he ignored his friend's critical condition. He crouched and put a hand to his friend's shoulder. 

"What happened here?" Leon asked, his face growing serious. It almost sounded like a demand. "I arrive here and find that it's infested with zombiesjust tell metell me what happened, Willie. This shit's starting to freak me out."

Willie had his hand pressed against the gashes over his stomach, coughing while struggling with his words. "Leonyou gotta get outta here," he groaned, wincing. "Find the basement to this station and get your ass to the Hospitalthere's an escape route located in the underground laboratory"

"Wait, wait, slow down, my manwhat happened to everyone else? Where's all the backup and survivors. I can't just let all this go like th—"

"Everybody's _dead_," Willie interrupted. His eyes were bloodshot, staring back into Leon's. The eyes reeked of despairing horror. This was a very different Willie—it was more of an afraid version that was so unlike the fearless one Leon came to know. The difference was so drastic, it was terrifying. Whatever made him act that way must of either been unspeakable or relentlessly powerful. 

"Don't try to find anyoneyou're gonna waste your time," Willie said, slowly shaking his head. "Don't try to be a hero, Leon, just forget about meIn a while, more of those freaks are gonna breach whatever we've put upit's important you leave _soon_" 

Leon breathed a sigh. "_No_I can't just leave you here—"

"You refuse to listen, and I'm gonna shoot you," Willie said, his eyes widening. The tone of his voice made the hair at the back of his neck rise. " 


End file.
